Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Why did they do such a good job modeling hormones?

  Loneliness. Anger. Depression. Despair. Did he really need to feel this flood of emotion while trapped inside the body of a walking battle-tank? The doctors said it would keep him sane. It sure as fuck wasn’t working.

  He sensed everything around him in three hundred and sixty degrees and scents in the parts to per billion. Bomb sniffing dogs had nothing on him. He saw in frequencies he’d never heard of. Everything was swirling motion and there was no shutting it out. He couldn’t close his eyes or blink. There was never a second of respite from the sensory onslaught. Every movement was tracked, analyzed, assigned a Threat Level and watched for further developments. A gnat flew by and he had to watch it until some part of him decided it was real and not some micro-remote assassination tool. It reduced its Threat Level to almost zero. There was no such thing as actual zero.

  Movement. Threat analysis. Movement. Threat analysis.

  He was going to snap if this didn’t let up soon.

  Abdul killed the gnat to remove it from the list of things he was watching.

  I can’t fucking do this.

  He should have known better than to accept the military’s offer of immortality. Fear of death; it seemed so ridiculous now. An eternity of this was so much scarier. He should have demanded time to study his options. He hadn’t even learned that Scans had yet to be officially granted Human Rights until it was too late. The North American Trade Union was divided, the northern districts supporting Scan Rights, and the southern districts against. Even the northern districts referred to them as Scan Rights instead of Human Rights.

  When the sub-orbital arrived he watched people disembark and checked their faces against the NATU ID data he’d been given. He spotted agent Dickinson, the youthful face, dark hair shot with gray, an instant giveaway. He doesn’t look much older than me. A couple of years, tops. Not that I’ll ever get any older. The NATU agent was lost in conversation with a dark-haired woman not included in the mission profile Abdul had been supplied with. She’s gorgeous. Exactly the kind of woman he’d never been able to talk to. As they approached, Abdul heard the two arguing about what was the best beer. Both were unarmed, their Threat Levels minimal. Dickinson’s was nominally higher than the woman’s and when Abdul checked his records he saw the man had considerable martial arts training—karate, judo, and Brazilian jujitsu. Abdul found a spot in Agent Dickinson’s path and waited. They walked past, stepping around him like he wasn’t there.

  Abdul turned to watch them, trying to decide if he should say something or follow until they noticed him. He decided to speak.

  “Agent Griffin Dickinson.” He kept his voice deep and relaxing even though it was capable of dispersing crowds and shattering windows with 170dB sirens and even louder audio bombs.

  The NATU agent tensed and turned as if expecting trouble. “Yes?”

  “Abdul Aziiz-Giordano reporting for duty,” he said.

  The woman stood beside Griffin, staring at Abdul in undisguised fascination. “It’s huge.”

  “It’s a he,” corrected Griffin.

  “That’s cool,” said Abdul. “Talk about it like it’s not here.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never been this close to one before.” Eyes wide, she touched his torso.

  Abdul, though aware of the pressure of her fingers and able to measure the temperature of her skin, couldn’t feel the touch. Just moments ago he dreamed of human contact and here it was, another moment stolen. Abdul added it to the list of hurts. “Mister Dickinson, I have been assigned as your security detail and military support. The mission profile lists you as team leader. The woman is not listed. What is her role in this?”

  Griffin gestured toward the woman. “Abdul, meet Nadia.” He wiped sweat from his brow and scowled. “NATU Public Relations. They dumped her on me with no warning.”

  “Dumped me on you?” Nadia demanded. She brushed past Griffin on her way into the concourse and he stared after her, looking confused.

  Abdul watched her departure as well, admiring the curve of her calves. Strange, the things you miss most. He returned his attention to Griffin

  “Why send a PR hack?” Abdul asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Because my boss is an asshole.”

  “Whose isn’t?”

  Griffin blinked. “They steal children and purée their brains,” he said, voice flat. “They stack the corpses in barns and bury them in quarter mile-long trenches.” His eyes were damp and his breathing ragged. “I’m going to shut this crèche down. Are you going to help?”

  Ah, so this was about the crèches. Abdul noted the NATU agent’s physical reactions with interest. There was some history there, no doubt. Something recent, judging by the haunted look in his eyes. Abdul thought about his little sister, Janani. He’d been stationed in Old Montreal for a week when she was taken. No trace of her had been found and no ransom notes appeared demanding payment. His Mom lost two children in less than a month. Had Janani been taken for this? Was she still alive, trapped, and serving those who stole her? There was a special hell for people willing to shuck children for their brains. Anger bubbled up from somewhere deep, threatened to burst the seams. “I get a brood-slaver in my sights, he’s gonna be a greasy stain.”

  Griffin raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like—”

  “I’m a brain trapped in a walking battle tank,” Abdul said. “You have no idea what it’s like. So fuck you.”

  Griffin stared up at Abdul. “Didn’t they program you to respect authority?”

  Okay, the man had some stones. “Fuck you, Sir.”

  “That’s better. If the brood-slavers come peacefully, no killing. Understood?”

  “Yup. Brilliant plan, boss.”

  Griffin studied Abdul as if trying to read his expression. Yeah. Good luck with that.

  “You going to go all comatose on me?” Griffin asked. “Maybe stare out a window and say fuck over and over?”

  Strange question. But then, maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps Griffin had some experience with Scans. Maybe Abdul wasn’t the only one feeling a little unstable. “Not today,” he said.

  “Good. We’ll bounce first thing in the morning.” Griffin pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and shook his head. “We’ll fly to Wichita tomorrow morning.”

  “We fly in and everyone is going to know about it. The crèche will be gone before we get there.”

  Griffin winced. His face said finding an empty crèche would be crushing. “Good point.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, I’ll arrange transport.”

  “Get us a Special Response Team as well,” suggested Abdul.

  “Good idea. What’s travel time to Wichita Falls?”

  “About two and a half hours. Forecast says it’s going to be a hot one.”

  “Great.” Griffin hurried after Nadia, leaving Abdul on the airport tarmac in his imagined heat.

  Abdul watched Griffin’s retreating back. The array of sensors built into his tank-like body had been testing the air and reported the alcohol on Griffin’s breath. Beer. Cold beer. Abdul remembered smuggling cold beer into the barracks—his French-Canadian Sergeant turned a blind eye. And he remembered girls. There was this one girl in his Sunday gaming group, a half dozen Privates who got together each week to role-play, that he had almost talked to. Her Half-Elf Ranger killed his Wizard and stole the treasure.

  Is there anything sexier than nerd chicks?

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Thursday, August 2nd, 2046

  Mark Lokner sat at his desk, swimming in the holographic representation of the world’s markets, for over thirty hours. He hadn’t risen to urinate, eat, or stretch his legs. Such distractions were for the living. In thirty hours he achieved more than in the last several months of life. His near-omniscient view-point here at the center of this colossal influx of market data showed him things he never would have seen. In Costa Rica, his Central American Mafia contacts now made more money investing in the
world markets than they did from drugs, prostitution, and selling scanned children for use in black market chassis.

  Were they trying to become legitimate business people? He shook his head in disgust. You can’t trust anyone. He backed his market POV out of Central America and became once again aware of his desk and office.

  Trustworthy people, was that an oxymoron?

  Rome wasn’t built in a day, and though it hadn’t been built by one man, it had been ruled by one. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. One man, as long as it was the right man. A man above corruption. A man who knew what was best for humanity, even if they themselves couldn’t see it.

  Someday they’d make statues in his honor. Of course being in a virtuality they wouldn’t be real statues, but there’d still be statues. Was a statue worth less if it was made of code instead of stone? But then he was immortal. Did they make statues of people who were still alive? That seemed a little egotistical. This, he decided, was a problem for another day.

  First, he needed trustworthy people. He couldn’t find them, but he knew how to make them. Control was everything.

  Mark’s desk informed him the call he was waiting for had come through. It was Capo Riina, his NATU Mafia contact.

  “Go.” Mark had no time for niceties.

  “They’ve boarded the plane. We’ve told them the flight has been delayed.” Riina’s voice was deep, calm and professional. He could have been commentating sports scores instead of discussing mass-murder.

  “The cameras?”

  A three second pause. “There’s one. You should have access now.”

  Mark glanced at his desk and spotted a new icon, the depiction of one of his private jets, pulsing for attention.

  Hmm. Dead people didn’t need personal jets. I’ll sell those off later. He tapped the icon.

  His point of view hung above the cockpit door and he looked the length of the plane. It was populated by the brightest people M-Sof had to offer. They believed they were flying to the Mayan Riviera for an all-expenses-paid team-building retreat. Erik Thomson, M-Sof’s head Virtuality Engineer, chatted with Anne Colson from the Holoptigraphics department. They were laughing and drinking from white plastic cups. Men and women moved about the aisles serving them. The camera was fixed in place. It would neither pan nor zoom. He felt paralyzed, trapped and suffocating, and backed out of the POV.

  Mark watched the icon pulse on his desktop. No one is going to die. Not really.

  Curiosity pulled him back into the claustrophobic rigid POV. At least they remembered the audio feed.

  “Camera works,” he told Riina. “Everyone on board?”

  “All twenty-four accounted for.”

  “Put them out.”

  The serving staff retreated into the cockpit. Five seconds later the plane was quiet. Twenty-four people slept slumped in their chairs or sprawled in the aisle where they’d fallen.

  “Venting the gas,” Riina informed Mark. “Just a few seconds more.”

  Mark studied the sleeping bodies as best he could from his fixed position. They looked peaceful and happy, except Erik Thomson who frowned and twitched in his drug-induced slumber.

  The cockpit door opened and the serving staff exited, now dressed in medical scrubs, and wheeled scanning gear into the aisle.

  “My people are in place,” said Riina. “Last chance to change your mind.”

  Later, when they awoke, would they call him a murderer? Mark looked over the twenty-four sleeping bodies. He wished he could get closer, see them more clearly. This isn’t real death. I am not a murderer.

  “What about the scanning facility?”

  “Pardon?” asked Riina.

  “Wasn’t talking to you.”

  God only knew how many people he killed there. And they were gone. Dead and gone. There was no forever for them. He should have taken them like he planned to take the M-Sof employees. Those doctors were bright people and killing them had been wasteful. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. No one ever had to die.

  These hand-picked twenty-four, he’d give them immortality. They’ll thank me once they understand.

  Meat brains were the past. They age and rot and die, doomed from the day they’re born. Sickness, disease, cancer. Those were yesterday’s problems. Tomorrow was a whole new reality, one without filth and famine and poverty.

  Virtuality is the new reality. A good slogan, he decided.

  They might not thank him today, but tomorrow—when they understood what he planned—they would be grateful.

  “Do it.” Mark said, quelling his doubts.

  The medical team spent several minutes spreading plastic sheets. From one of the snack trolleys they withdrew a Brainbox, a molded white plastic cube not much larger than a human head. They picked Joanne Malhotra, a Data Systems Architect who was closest to the cockpit, and sat her upright in an empty seat they’d tarped. The Brainbox was dropped over her head and the technician, a man who looked barely old enough to be out of college, spent several minutes trying to get all of Joanne’s hair stuffed into the box.

  “Stop screwing around,” barked one of the tech’s co-workers. “We’re on a schedule here.”

  “Fine,” the tech said. “Clear!” He activated the Brainbox. There was a metallic hiss and the box came away from Joanna’s headless body. It twitched once and geysered gouts of bright blood into the air. The third gush was half the volume of the first and second.

  Mark had eaten lunch with Joanna. She brought her kids to the staff Christmas party last year. What have I done?

  The body slumped to one side.

  The young tech holding the Brainbox surveyed the gore and nodded. “Not too bad. Tarps caught almost everything.” Then blood rained from the carpeted ceiling. “Oh.”

  Mark, viewpoint pinned, stared at Joanna’s body. Blood leaked from the open neck. He couldn’t breathe. This was wrong.

  “Stop! Stop this!”

  No one answered.

  “Riina! Stop this goddamn it!”

  Two burly men dragged Joanna’s body away as two more hauled Erik Thomson forward. Professional and detached, they could have been be moving sacks of grain.

  “Riina!”

  The tech fit the Brainbox with Joanna’s head into the portable scanning rig. “No one bump this. Seriously.” They nodded and continued about their assigned tasks. Another day at the abattoir.

  Mark felt his body start to retch and kick back in his office, desperate for air. The last thing he heard as he fled the camera was the tech calling out, “Next!”

  Mark sat at his desk, staring at his pristine hands. All that blood. He spread his fingers wide. Clean. They were the hands he remembered. But they weren’t, not really. Not real.

  “Get me Riina,” he told the desk. “No video.”

  The Mafia Capo was on the line in seconds. “Yes?” All business.

  “What the hell was that?” Mark demanded.

  Riina was unruffled, his voice flat. “What was what?”

  “You took her head off!”

  “Of course. Brain has to be motionless or the Scan is garbage. You know this.”

  “I thought you were going to do it humanely.”

  “They felt nothing.”

  “But....There’s blood all over the ceiling of my plane!”

  “Oh that.” Riina sounded contemptuous. “Everything will be scrubbed beyond spotless. The plane is going to explode over the Gulf of Mexico. Don’t worry, we’ve done this before.”

  He was still angry, but it was too late to stop anything. And really, now that he thought about it, he needed these people. He needed them somewhere where he could control them, where trust didn’t mar the equation. Stopping the process would be a mistake.

  A moment of weakness, nothing more.

  “How soon can I meet with my people?” asked Mark.

  “Want them softened up first so they see you as their rescuer?”

  Softened? What kind of barbarian did Riina think he was?
“No. These are smart folks.”

  “Okay.” Riina sounded doubtful.

  “When?”

  “Give us another three hours to finish up and transport the Scans to the M-Sof facilities.”

  “Campus,” Mark corrected, without thought.

  “Whatever. Your people on site are ready to receive the product?”

  Product? Mark killed the connection without answering. Talking to the Mafia Capo left him feeling more human. Taking someone’s head off wasn’t something one should be so damned casual about. How many deaths had Riina caused that it no longer touched him in the least?

  Mark took several slow, calming breaths.

  “They’re not dead,” he reminded himself. “I didn’t murder them. I’ve made them immortal. They’ll thank me.”

  These people have families.

  “Had families,” he corrected.

  They’d never again see their children, husbands, and wives. He remembered the picture of Joanna’s kids on her desk, her youngest daughter wearing a bright pink paper hat with the silvery words Happy Birthday. It had been taken at a sunny backyard barbecue. And now Joanna’s body is going to be barbecued.

  Mark shoved his doubts aside and dove back into his market analysis.

  Three hours flew by before the desk informed him he had company. Twenty-four other Scans now lived alongside him in computers buried in the R&D building’s basement. It felt strange, alone but not alone. Like him, they had access to a virtuality of the entire M-Sof campus and could work in their labs or run in the soccer fields. It was nice. If he wanted company he wouldn’t have to go far.

  “Where are they?” Mark asked the desk.

  Twenty-four overlapping dots glowed in the campus central cafeteria.

  He was heading for the door when he realized he’d been locked in his office for the last forty some odd hours. He must look like hell. He checked his shirt only to find it crisp and unwrinkled. His pants were sharply creased. He sniffed his armpits and smelled nothing, not even deodorant.

  “Well this is handy,” he mused, exiting the office.

  The cafeteria, designed to seat over a thousand staff, made the group of arguing people small. All eyes were on him as he approached.