Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “Thirty-million Au. This brain is one in a billion.”

  88 liked numbers, they focused her and she caught more of the conversation.

  “NATU gold? Not Euros, or Yen?”

  The soft one shook his head. “Not a chance, that crap isn’t backed. Thirty million NATU Au. You want something cheaper, we can look at average kids.”

  The other made a gesture with his hands that 88 couldn’t understand. “Fine. Done. Purée her brains.”

  88 didn’t see them walk away; they were just gone. The cracks weren’t so interesting right now and the sweet chemical smell hung thick.

  “They’re going to kill you,” she said.

  Where was mom? 88 wanted her pillow, she needed to think.

  CHAPTER TWO: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046

  Fresh out of university, Griffin started his new job last week. His boss, an immaculate suit named Phil, led him to a cubicle and introduced him to the office chair he expected his ass to spend the next four decades sitting on. He spent most of the first day pretending to look busy and trying to find the bathroom.

  On Griffin’s second day a water war broke out in the southern districts, the FLQ blew up a train station in Old Montreal, and a militant environmental group sparked a massive fire in the Alberta tar sands that would burn for years. The office emptied, agents scattering about the North American Trade Union to put out fires literal and otherwise.

  On his third day, an anonymous tip came in about a crèche hidden on a farm an hour from the NATU offices in Toronto.

  Phil appeared in Griffin’s cubicle as if he’d teleported there. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty, Sir.”

  Phil muttered something under his breath about diapers. “You completed the tactical training?”

  “Well, I’ve completed the—”

  “The file will be transferred to you. Familiarize yourself with the case and then collect your Strike Team.”

  “Strike Team?”

  “The crèche is yours. Shut it down.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “It’s you or the janitor.” Phil looked like maybe he thought the janitor might be the wiser choice.

  Am I allowed to make jokes too? Somehow he thought not.

  Griffin wanted to say that this was his third day. He wanted to say that he’d never commanded troops in the field before. He had a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea.

  Instead, he glanced about the empty cubicles, thought about his father’s Someday you have to stand for something, if you coast through life you’ll miss it speech, and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  Two days later it was forty-four degrees Celsius with the humidex and here was Griffin, covered head to toe in black magnetorheological body armor.

  Coasting through life, he decided, is a hell of a lot more comfortable. He felt sodden and chafed, wrung-out like a moldy washcloth. To make matters worse, he had the fiercest itch growing. He shifted uncomfortably, clawing at his shoulder to no effect. Trying to get at an itch protected by the latest in body-armor was damned near impossible.

  Old growth trees heavy with leaves obscured everything. They could have been in the middle of Algonquin park instead of an hour from Toronto. It looked peaceful.

  Not for long.

  Again he pawed at the itch.

  “Damn.”

  “You okay, Sir?” whispered the soldier crouched beside him.

  “Bedbugs,” hissed Griffin. Why the hell had Phil put him in such a crappy hotel? He was only an hour and a half from home, he could have spent the last two days planning this strike in the dubious comfort of his rented condo instead of crammed into the Hamilton Hotel with two dozen restless North American Trade Union Marines. To make matters worse, every single one of them was older than he. Half of them were scarred veterans, hard eyes questioning his every decision.

  And why not? What the hell do I know about leading a Strike Team? Was it too late to call the janitor?

  The soldier—Griffin couldn’t remember his name—nodded in commiseration. “Me too, Sir. Itches like a fucker.”

  Griffin blinked at the soldier. At least this one was pretty close in age and Griffin didn’t feel like he should apologize for being here and giving orders. “You don’t have to call me Sir.”

  “Yes Mister Dickinson, Sir.” There was no sign of humor.

  Griffin hid his annoyance and checked the time display in the corner of his vision. 7:58 AM. Two minutes and then it was go time. Other information scrolled past, the date, temperature, his GPS coordinates, and assorted other random facts he didn’t care about.

  Today is the day. Fear and excitement shivered through him.

  Shut down the crèche, save the children, and be a hero by noon. Though he never said anything, his father had always been quietly disapproving of the fact Griffin worked for the government. Maybe now he’d see that Griffin was doing some good. Maybe he would even be proud. Fat fucking chance.

  “I wish Corporal Anjaneya had come with us,” said the soldier. “It’d be awful nice to have a combat chassis around if this gets messy.”

  A soldier whose mind had been scanned and holoptigraphically stored after her body was cut to pieces by Taramahura insurgents in the Copper Canyon, Corporal Anjaneya’s Scan was housed in a General Dynamics Light Assault chassis. She was meant to be the team’s recon and tactical support. Instead, as they readied themselves to leave the hotel, she stood motionless at the window, staring out at the street beyond, muttering “Fuck fuck fuck fuck” over and over. They’d been unable to even get her attention, much less bring her along on the strike. Already his beautiful plan had taken a hit.

  “We can handle this,” said Griffin. “How far are we from the farm?”

  “Two hundred meters, Sir.”

  Griffin ground his teeth but said nothing. He hated being called Sir almost as much as he hated calling people Sir. The word dripped feigned subservience and respect. At least when he used it. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t the same for everyone. Really, how many times could you use Sir in the span of a few seconds and have it not ring false?

  “No movement?”

  “None, Sir.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this. Move the team forward as per the plan. I don’t want anyone getting away.” With a sigh he gave up on the itch, it’d have to wait. “Get the doctor over here, I want him next to me. My guess is the conditions will be pretty bad. These kids might need medical attention.”

  “That’s me, Sir.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, squad Medic.”

  “That’ll have to do.” The Medic looked hurt and Griffin ignored him, signaling to the Marines crouched in the forest around them.

  The squad moved well, he had to give them credit for that. At least they knew what they were doing. It was a beautiful plan if he did say so himself. Every possibility had been considered and accounted for. This was going to be a crèche strike for the records. The next generation of NATU Special Investigators would read about him in class.

  Griffin crouched low and followed the squad Medic through the trees. The Tavor 41 assault rifle, still slung over his back, caught on a low-hanging branch and yanked him to a halt. Embarrassed, he looked to see if anyone noticed. No one paid him any attention. Ahead, he saw the faded red of a large barn through the trees. Half the team would hit the barn, while the other half took the big two-story fieldstone farmhouse. Right on cue half the squad peeled away, disappearing into the dense forest.

  Here we go. Here we go.

  Swinging the rifle from his back, Griffin shuffled forward. This was crazy, a crèche right here in Ontario, barely an hour from NATU’s District of Ontario headquarters in Toronto. There was a quiet little farming community not two minutes away. What was it called? Something to do with cows. Jerseyville? When did things get so bad? When had the demand for scanned minds left the legal supply so far behind? One breakthrough in Artificial Intelligence could put an end to all of this evil.

  The
squad broke from the trees and hustled double-time to the barn wall where they stopped, waiting. Griffin, back pressed to the peeling red paint, breathed in deep gulps.

  What the hell is that smell? It must have been something awfully powerful to make it through his helmet’s filtration system. He gagged a little, swallowing bile. How embarrassing would it be to puke in front of a squad of hardened combat vets?

  The trooper at the front of the squad peeked around the corner and gave the All Clear sign. Breaking into two groups, the squad took their positions. Half covered the barn entrance, rifles pointed down the pebbled drive toward the farmhouse out of sight around the I bend. The rest faced the door, ready for the moment it opened. Griffin tried to watch everything, the laneway, the surrounding trees, and the opening barn door. He felt exposed. Those trees which had moments ago hidden him now swarmed with unknown threats. Okay, all part of the plan. The other squad would take the farmhouse.

  A rabbit dashed from the trees and Griffin, riding the razor’s edge of adrenalin, almost shot it. He watched it disappear back into the forest.

  In his peripheral vision he saw the barn door swing open and the Marines tense, ready for action.

  “What the fuck?” someone said.

  Someone else vomited into their helmet, a tearing retching sound, loud over the earpiece. Turning, Griffin peered into the darkness. His helmet adjusted, changing light frequencies to allow him to see within.

  Rows of chicken-wire cages, their doors hanging open. There must have been hundreds of them, each no more than a few cubic feet. A small dog would have been uncomfortable in there. The cages were empty.

  A display on the visor informed Griffin it was over sixty degrees in the barn and a wave of heat washed over him as the air trapped within flooded out the open door. Partially cooked rotting meat. Griffin threw up into his helmet, filling the filter and clogging it closed. He stumbled back a few steps as did the rest of the Marines. He tried to draw breath and got a mouthful of regurgitated breakfast, fried eggs on toast. He gagged and again vomited. Dropping the rifle, he clawed at the helmet’s releases. He was going to drown in his own puke.

  The helmet came away and he drew a single sobbing breath before doubling over as, unprotected by the helmet’s filters, the full force of the stench bludgeoned him. Unable to do anything else, he retched himself dry. He wasn’t alone. At least half the squad had tossed their helmets and were puking alongside him. When there was nothing left he straightened, peering into the murky darkness. Without the helmet’s Light Intensification gear he couldn’t make out much more than dim shapes and the dust dancing in beams of light where the roof was holed. Wood was stacked along one wall. Nothing moved. Buzzing filled his ears, made his teeth itch.

  Griffin spat, trying to clear the taste from his mouth. It was impossible, his entire being had been infused with the stench. Unclipping the flashlight from his utility belt he panned it across the barn’s interior. The empty cages, the makeshift wood, leather, and bright chrome scanning chairs at the rear of the barn. Wood stacked along the side wall. No. Not Wood. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw. Was that a thin, pale arm? And that, a leg? No, couldn’t be. And there was a face, empty eyes wide, staring straight at him. His brain struggled to fit everything together and yet shied from the truth. Too many arms and legs. Too many little faces. Ragged black blankets had been tossed over the corpses, but flesh remained exposed everywhere he looked.

  “What’s that sound?” the Medic asked, arriving at Griffin’s side. His helmet was gone, one of many littering the driveway.

  Griffin ignored the question. “You’re with me,” he commanded and stepped into the crushing heat of the barn. He wanted to hold his breath and to vomit all at the same time. Only force of will and a desire not to look like a coward kept him moving forward. The Medic hung back but followed him in. The buzzing got louder.

  “Brighter,” Griffin told the flashlight as he panned the light along the stacked bodies. The blankets exploded, a maelstrom of angry black filling the air. Where Griffin froze, the Medic squealed something incomprehensible and fled for the door. Flies. Millions of them. They were in his hair and eyes, their legs tickling at the corners of his clenched mouth as they crawled across his face. He spun and flailed his arms futilely. In seconds they were gone, fleeing the confines of the barn.

  The Medic looked sheepishly from the door. “Sorry.”

  Griffin waved it away, only regretting he hadn’t thought to flee too. “Get in here.” He felt the flies still trapped in his hair.

  The Medic half saluted before catching himself. He re-entered the barn but didn’t look happy. “How many?” he asked, staring at the stacked bodies.

  Griffin forced himself to look, to appraise the magnitude of the atrocity. The bodies were piled five or six high, stacked like firewood. Thirty deep, he figured, looking the length of the wall. Closer now, he could make out more detail. None of them were over eight years old. It was unreal. This couldn’t be. No one could do this to children on such a scale.

  “Three hundred,” he answered.

  “Shit.”

  Griffin nodded, forcing himself closer even though every part of him wanted to run screaming until he found somewhere he couldn’t smell this, couldn’t see it. Wriggling white maggots crawled in the corners of eyes, nestled in nostrils.

  “Maggots,” said the Medic, pointing out the obvious. “They’ve been dead for a quite a while.”

  “No,” said Griffin, remembering the Forensic Entomology class. “Depending on the breed of flies it can happen in as little as eight to twenty hours. And these are still in the first larval stage.”

  “So?”

  “A day, maybe two. The heat will have sped the process.”

  “So if we...” The Medic trailed off.

  If they’d moved faster, if he hadn’t spent two days planning this crèche raid to the very last detail, they would have been here in time to stop this. Griffin swallowed the reek of death and failure.

  “You couldn’t have known,” offered the Medic.

  Griffin turned away, stumbled from the barn.

  Another Marine, this one still wearing his helmet, intercepted him. “Sir, we’ve got word from the squad at the farmhouse. It’s empty, cleaned out. Doesn’t look like they’ve been gone long. A day, tops.”

  A day. One day.

  Griffin looked everywhere but at the barn. He tasted slow-cooked flesh. Sour rot filled his sinuses. His skin crawled from the memory of tickling flies’ legs.

  “Sir,” said the Marine. “They’ve found something you should see.”

  “Fine,” Griffin answered. “Tell them I’m on my way.” He walked away before the Marine could continue.

  The pebbled trail leading to the farmhouse was impossibly quiet. No bird calls, no hum of insects. Only the sighing of the wind through the trees. Griffin blinked and felt tears leak down his cheeks. He looked down at the spattering of vomit caking his chest and felt too gutted to care. A Marine spotted him and jogged to intercept.

  The soldier’s eyes widened as he noted Griffin’s state and he said, “Sir, follow me please, Sir.”

  Griffin followed him to the rear of the farmhouse. Two more Marines loitered there. A third stood with a shovel and a look of distaste. Behind the house was a field, a dozen acres of tilled earth. The dirt had been piled in long hills a foot or so high.

  Griffin stared, uncomprehending. “What am I looking at?”

  “Graves,” answered the Marine at his side.

  He looked at the piled earth. “A little long for graves, aren’t they?”

  “Mass graves, Sir. Trenches. They’ve been burying the bodies back here. We dug a bit. Judging from the decomp, they’ve been at it for a while.”

  Griffin blinked at the field and spat. The taste of death and failure would never leave him. He wanted to brush his teeth, scrape his tongue with a razor. “How many?”

  “We can’t be sure, Sir. Best guess, from the amount of digging t
hey did, thousands.”

  “Thousands.” Griffin’s knees felt rubbery as he realized he was standing atop a long, massed grave. He stepped off the raised earth.

  “We should report in,” said the Marine.

  No point in maintaining radio silence. “I’ll make the call,” said Griffin, as if he had a choice.

  Phil, head of Toronto’s NATU Special Investigations branch, gave nothing away as he listened to Griffin’s report. If the abject failure of the raid touched him at all, he showed none of it.

  “Clean up and report to the office,” commanded Phil, tie crisp, hair perfect, as he eyed Griffin’s puke-stained shirt.

  “I need to—”

  “I want you in Toronto by noon.”

  “But—” Phil was gone, the connection dead.

  A hero before noon. Griffin hawked and spat.

  Two hours later he was showered and back in Toronto. No amount of scrubbing could remove the smell. Everything bore the scent of hot, rotting flesh. He gargled a pint of mouthwash and devoured half a tube of toothpaste to no avail.

  Griffin padded naked around the kitchen, feet slapping on the bare concrete floor, in search of something to overpower the taste in his mouth. Not yet having received his first paycheck, he hadn’t shopped and the cupboards were barren. A stack of empty pizza boxes waited to be recycled. He was considering snorting tabasco sauce to burn the scent from his sinuses when Phil called.

  Griffin answered, no video this time.

  “Dickinson, where are you?” demanded Phil foregoing all pleasantries.

  “At home.”

  “Good. Pack a suitcase, you’re flying out this afternoon.”

  “I’m done,” said Griffin. “I’m not cut out for fieldwork.” Put me somewhere my failures don’t kill little kids.

  “Everyone is busy. You’re all I have. Pack light, you’ll only be a couple of days.” And Phil was gone again, sure in the knowledge Griffin would obey.

  The power flickered and went out.

  The filter-mask reduced the amount of toxins and pollutants Griffin breathed but it was hot to the point of suffocation at the bus stop. A large truck grumbled to a halt nearby and the temperature increased as the exhaust washed over him. Unable to keep up, the filter-mask shut down and he breathed his previous exhalation tasting tabasco sauce, mouthwash, and rotting bodies. Any life left in the crease of his already wrinkled suit wilted. The truck lumbered away and left Griffin in a cloud of oily fumes and dust.