Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  ***

  Griffin saw Abdul step from the Chinook and, firing his jump-assist-jets to slow his descent, drop straight to the ground. Nothing that big and dangerous should move that gracefully.

  “Go,” he said more for his own benefit than anything else. “Go.”

  He pushed himself from the helicopter, swung out over nothing. If he fell from here, he’d break everything. The rappelling line spun him in a dizzying circle and he lowered himself toward the roof.

  Griffin slid down the rope, eyes pinched against the swirling maelstrom of dust. He didn’t see the roof coming and landed hard, his right knee buckling with an agonizing wrench. He pitched forward. For an instant he thought he’d topple off the roof and then his hands slammed gravel. Still alive. His heart kicked with a surge of adrenalin. It felt like something in his gut tore loose and his right knee came apart like shattered plastic. I should be in a damned hospital.

  “Unclip your harness or you’ll get dragged off the roof,” Nadia said over the helmet radio. Way ahead of him, a recurring theme.

  “Right.” Griffin detached the harness moments before it was reeled back into the helicopter.

  Holding his breath against the pain he pushed himself to his feet. Would the knee hold? Mostly. He took a tentative step and winced at the bone on bone grinding within.

  Griffin examined the roof-top, stalling while he decided if he could keep moving. The Chinook gained height and the dust wasn’t as bad and he could open his eyes without having them filled with grit. And then he remembered the helmet visor protected his face. He’d been squinting like an idiot.

  The roof, bituminous asphalt, shimmered in the midday heat. The bitumen bled through the aggregate and clung to the souls of his boots. Cigarette butts and empty Bud cans littered the area. The beer cans all crushed in the middle in the same way, the butts all smoked to the filter.

  Griffin realized the asphalt was black, and only the sheer number of cigarette butts made it gray. A small off-green shingled shack with a single door and no windows beckoned. Griffin assumed it led to stairs.

  He looked up at the Chinook circling above and Nadia, sitting in the doorway, legs dangling, waved down at him. A halo of recording gear floated around her, picking up everything. No doubt it was also wired into her helmet as well.

  “You see anything, up there?” he asked.

  “Abdul is at the front door,” answered Nadia.

  “Right.”

  Griffin limped toward a boxy metal construct at one side of the roof. It’d do nicely for cover. Not until he was crouched behind it did he realize it was blasting hot air.

  “The bad guys have air-conditioning,” he muttered as sweat poured off him, soaking the MR vest.

  “We’ll add it to the list of charges,” said Nadia.

  Griffin broke open the Tavor’s tripod and set the rifle on top of the vent. It was almost like being at the range; even better because he had some cover to hide behind. He checked the sights—perfect view of the door on the green shack—and the rifle’s movement. Everything was smooth.

  “Safety?” Nadia asked.

  “Right.” Griffin disengaged the Tavor’s safety mechanism. “Thanks.”

  The building shook beneath him.

  “Oh shit.”

  ***

  Giovanni heard a great crashing sound from somewhere down by the main entrance as he pushed open the rooftop door. Whoever it was coming through the front, the poor bastard was going to have to deal with Oo. There was a crack of rifle fire and the wood frame of the door blew to splinters near his head. His cheek stung where shards of wood had embedded themselves. Christ, he hoped they didn’t scar. He saw right away they were trying to pin him down, keep him in the building. Bad idea. They should have killed him when they had the chance.

  There was only one place to hide and sure enough, crouched down behind the air-conditioning vent, was some dumb fuck with a rifle. Giovanni would have laughed had he the time; as if that flimsy aluminum sheeting was going to stop a fifty caliber tungsten carbide armor piercing round from his little sweetheart. He shot the crouching man in twice in the chest, right through the A/C venting and the guy dropped, boneless. Lights out, baby.

  Gun fights weren’t about who shot first, they were about who got shot first.

  Giovanni looked upwards at the Chinook hovering twenty yards over the roof. A woman sat in the doorway, her feet hanging over the edge. She was pointing something at him so he shot her too. He had all the time in the world and the patience of a Taoist monk. She dropped whatever she was holding and toppled forward out of the chopper. Giovanni emptied the last four rounds of his clip into the Chinook’s cockpit window, the glass starring, and the helicopter gained height and turned away. He doubted he could hurt the pilot—probably a Scan anyway.

  He turned and yelled back down the stairs, “Roof’s clear. Let’s go!” By the time he’d finished, he’d ejected the spent clip and popped a fresh one in its place. He did it without so much as glancing at the gun. The action was completed as if written into his genetic code, all muscle memory and a billion hours of mindless practice. And Mom said his philosophy degree was useless. Ha!

  His nose stung with the sharp metallic tang of gun smoke. God he loved that smell.

  At the bottom of the steps Riina came into view, slamming a clip into an old matte black Browning Hi-Power. The damned thing dated back to World War Two, and even had little swastikas engraved in the finish.

  “Didn’t I tell you to get a real gun?” Giovanni called down, shaking his head in mock disgust. Riina and his antiques.

  “It was my grandfather’s.”

  ***

  The door came away and something came with it. Whatever it was, it picked up Abdul and threw him through the wall of the building across the street. He picked himself out of the ruins of an old brick pizza oven. The bodies of the pizzeria’s patrons were scattered about the floor, bent at odd angles and splashed in blood.

  Dust and debris seemed to hang motionless in the air as his reactions kicked into combat mode. He tracked everything, chunks of stone, fragments of wood, droplets of airborne blood that had not yet landed. Everything was assigned a Threat Level and he ignored them all except for the coruscating black and yellow combat chassis exiting the old brownstone building. It must have been some kind of new ARU release, because his combat computer grunted and shrugged instead of spewing statistics at him. The chassis did however scream Threat!

  Like I couldn’t figure that out for myself.

  More bodies littered the sidewalk. Too slow to know what was happening, the humans had yet to begin screaming.

  A street cop was in the glacial process of drawing his gun when the ARU chassis snatched him up like a ragdoll and hurled him into a nearby wall. Unlike Abdul, the officer didn’t punch through the wall.

  The coruscating black and yellow chassis launched a swarming throng of missiles targeting the building’s supporting walls and the pizzeria and whatever was on the second floor above it fell in on top of Abdul. As tonnes of stone and wood crushed him to the floor, Abdul saw the chassis fire something at the Chinook above.

  ***

  The door swung open and a tall, sharp featured man in an expensive Italian suit stood in the green shack on the roof. Griffin put a bullet into the door frame and the guy didn’t even flinch. He looked straight at Griffin and—

  Clear blue sky. The wash of rotors scattered cigarette butts but he couldn’t see the Chinook. What happened? Had he been shot?

  Griffin felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to his solar plexus. Twice. He lay on his back unable to draw breath. His body convulsed as it fought for air.

  Again he heard the roar of that huge pistol.

  Marlene was yelling over the radio. He couldn’t understand what she was saying, the need to breathe made everything else unimportant. He managed a raw, deep in the chest sob and drew in the tiniest taste of air. Something landed beside him with a wet crunch. Confused, he turned his hea
d and found himself staring into Nadia’s wide eyes. The visor of her helmet had splintered but remained whole.

  The eyes moved, focused on him.

  His vision narrowed to a tunnel and then returned as he drew in a great sucking breath of air.

  How the hell? She wasn’t tethered. She’d fallen. The helmet would protect her head, though she might have broken bones. She’ll be okay. Then he saw the lazy leak of blood from the ragged bullet wound in her throat. Shouldn’t that be gushing?

  She blinked once and the eyes glazed and lost focus, stared through him.

  His chest felt like someone had dropped an anvil on him and each breath burned like acid in his lungs. He touched a gloved hand to where he’d been shot and it came away dry. No blood.

  Another explosion shook the street below and in his peripheral vision Griffin saw the roof of the building across the street dip and then cave inward with a great rumbling roar. He turned his head and for an instant he caught sight of and made eye contact with a woman standing at the window on the second floor and then she was gone.

  Nadia.

  No. He had to stop the expensive suit with the huge hand cannon.

  Griffin sat up with a moan. Stabbing pain threatened to cave his world in and his vision blurred red. It felt like his ribs had been shattered. The rifle and tripod still sat perched atop the A/C unit. Too far away. He drew the Glock, disengaging the safety with his thumb.

  Marlene screamed something about a combat chassis on the street and was cut off by an explosion that lit the roof even in broad daylight. A shadow rushed across the roof as the flaming wreckage of a spiraling Chinook spun toward the street below.

  Marlene screamed, “Fuck you too!” as she disappeared from view.

  There, framed in the door, the Italian suit, his back to Griffin. Griffin raised the gun and aimed, fought to still his ragged breathing. The man in the door turned.

  ***

  Riina jogged up the steps. Down below, at the front of the building, light poured in where the front door used to be. From outside heard something that sounded an awful lot like an earthquake or a building falling down. Oo-Suzumebachi would handle whatever was out there.

  Giovanni, waiting at the top, was backlit by a flaming helicopter plummeting towards the street. What the hell was Oo doing?

  Giovanni racked the slide of his Desert Eagle and turned away as something outside caught his attention. “Fucking body armor,” he said, raising the gun. And then the back of his head came apart in an explosion of bone and brain.

  Riina turned and jogged back down the stairs.

  He stopped halfway to the bottom as the helicopter crashed down with earth shaking force. Much of the old brownstone’s front wall came down. Whatever the hell was going on out there, Riina felt sure he’d be better off taking his chances on the roof.

  ***

  The servo-motors in Abdul’s limbs screamed in protest as he forced his way out of the collapsed building. He had no way of knowing how many dead or wounded he trod upon as he dug his way free. Heaving aside a last chunk of wall, he found a hellish scene. Marlene had crashed to the street, crushing the ARU chassis beneath her Chinook bulk. It looked like a warzone. Burning cars and charred bodies were littered everywhere.

  He stood, staring at the wreckage of the helicopter. Nadia. Marlene. Dead.

  Griffin. Where was Griffin? Was he still alive?

  Abdul heard gunfire, the sharp crack of an automatic pistol from the roof. He looked at the collapsing front wall of the building. If he forced his way in there, everything would come down. He glanced up at the second story roof.

  It fucking better hold me.

  Abdul jumped.

  ***

  The Italian suit toppled from view, falling back down the stairs. Griffin rolled over and crawled to Nadia. His ribs screamed in protest. Something was broken or torn inside, he felt it. He pulled the helmet away, cradling her head with his other hand.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said, noticing the way her right leg was bent and tucked underneath her torso at an impossible angle. “It’s—”

  There was a sharp crack and something slammed him in the kidney with paralyzing force. Another shot and he felt like his spine had shattered. He tried to turn and a third bullet struck him in the soft flesh under his ribs. He curled up with a wheezed grunt and was once again fighting for air. His gun. Where was his gun? Griffin stared stupidly at his empty hand, the fingers twitching spastically. He’d dropped it. Another bullet slammed into his chest and he fell backward, again gazing up into clear sky.

  A shadow fell across him and he stared straight into the barrel of a black pistol. Riina, the Mafia Capo, stood behind the gun, face expressionless. Griffin watched the tendons on the man’s wrist stand out as he tightened his grip on the pistol. The trigger started to move, the hammer coming back. His view of Riina was blocked by the bulk of Abdul’s torso as the chassis landed between the two men. He heard the pistol shot and then Riina’s scream as Abdul took the gun away.

  Abdul turned. “Is she alive?”

  “I can’t...”

  “Stay with her. Help’s on the way.” Abdul scooped up Riina as if he were a naughty child and carried him away, jumping back to the street below.

  Griffin hunched over Nadia, his own pains forgotten. He tried to staunch a wound that no longer bled. He said empty and comforting words to ears that could no longer hear.

  Sirens somewhere, getting louder. Fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars. It looked like Wichita had scrambled all of its emergency services.

  He was helpless. Powerless.

  When the medics arrived they shoved Griffin aside and gathered around Nadia. She was all but hidden from view. He could only see the one leg that wasn’t pinned under her body. Still no movement. One of the medics searched him for wounds.

  “Not hurt,” he said, numbly.

  “Hell you aren’t,” said the medic. “You’ve been shot in the back. Three times.” The medic turned him, fingered the slugs lodged in the MR vest. “And twice in the front.”

  “Forgot. She’ll be okay, right?”

  “Neck is broken,” he heard one of the medics over Nadia report. “Most of the ribs too.”

  Griffin’s medic didn’t answer but his eyes held nothing but doubt. After removing Griffin’s helmet and tossing it aside he peeled off the MR vest.

  “My fault.” All his fault. They shouldn’t have been here.

  The medic sliced Griffin’s shirt with a practiced flick of the wrist and stripped it away. His torso was one mottled bruise, very little pink showed at all. “Jesus Christ! Look at this fresh scarring. You should be in a damned hospital.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Shattered rib sent fragments into her lungs and heart,” Griffin overheard. “No chance of resuscitation. Pack her up. Get the box prepped. We airlift, stat.”

  Griffin shoved the medic away and the man, unprepared, fell over backwards with a yell. He picked up Nadia’s helmet. “Abdul,” he said into the radio mic.

  “I’m here.”

  “Is Riina still down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Griffin dropped the helmet, scooped up the pistol he’d dropped, and limped down the stairs and out the gaping hole in the front wall. When he stepped out into the Texas sun he had to squint and shade his eyes with a shaking hand. His fingers felt like they were being peeled with a cheese-grater. The heat of the day pressed against his shirtless torso. The outdoor air washed away the stench of gunpowder. The street was chaos, flashing lights and screaming wounded. There were bodies everywhere, many not moving. An entire building had fallen in. None of it mattered.

  He saw Riina, bruised and bound, standing in a circle of NATU police.

  Griffin pulled in a long breath and walked toward the knot of officers. Calm. He transferred the Glock to his left hand. Right hand shook too much.

  Keep moving. Nothing to see here. Must get close enough. Don’t miss.
One chance.

  A wall stepped into his path. Abdul.

  Griffin looked up at the towering chassis. “Move.”

  “No,” said the chassis.

  “Please.”

  “Sorry.” Softly.

  Griffin tried to step around Abdul but the chassis was too large and too fast. “Please. Let me kill him. Give me that.”

  “No. I can’t—” Abdul’s voice cracked. “You can’t do this.”

  “Yes I can.” Griffin raised the gun and pointed it Abdul. “Move,” he whispered. “I’ll—”

  Abdul plucked the gun from his hand. “No more killing.”

  With a sob Griffin leaned his head against the chassis’ torso. He punched it once and the pain overwhelmed the fire in his fingers. Abdul held Griffin until the medics took him away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Sunday, August 5th, 2046

  Griffin sat forward on the hospital bed, head in hands, elbows on knees. The metal frame groaned, its protest ignored. Shellacked white cinder blocks, the interior walls of this small private room were beaded with moisture from the humidity. The floor was exposed concrete rubbed smooth by decades of the shuffling wounded.

  Marlene and Nadia were dead as were dozens of civilians. There were scores of injured, and millions of AU in damages. They’d destroyed two blocks of downtown Wichita. Phil had been screaming threats of legal action when the call got dropped. Griffin considered trying to call him back and decided against it. Phil could yell at him in person when he got home.

  The doctor told him to rest, left him with a paper cup full of Ativan he hadn’t taken. He couldn’t rest. His pain was everything and nothing. No part of him wasn’t in agony, but the ache of loss dwarfed all others.

  An hour passed and here he sat, unwilling or unable to move. Choices led to failure. If he gave up, if he stayed on this groaning bed, maybe no one else would die.