Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Sweat gathered in beads and dropped from his nose into the puddle growing unnoticed between his bare feet. He wore nothing but a faded pair of thread-bare boxers. He licked his lips. They tasted of sweat and tears.

  This isn’t a plan, it’s pell-mell with details.

  Could he have done it differently? Would she be alive today if he took a moment to think? Would Riina have still been there if they went in a day later with a Strike Team?

  That Mafia goon may have shot her, but Nadia’s blood was on Griffin’s hands.

  He’d put a bullet in the man’s head. He felt nothing at that. Not even satisfaction.

  Nadia’s eyes, dark and beautiful, wide and still. Unseeing.

  Even though the report said the medical team was on scene within minutes it felt like hours.

  Riina. Abdul stopped him. Griffin had never wanted to kill someone before, never wanted anything that badly. He remembered his father saying all of his regrets were about the things he had not done. Griffin understood that now. He regretted not killing Riina when he had the chance, as pointless and futile as that would have been. At least he would have had the gesture to cling to instead of feeling Nadia’s death went unpunished.

  Her death remains unpunished.

  That thought got him moving. It was a fresh wound, still raw. Everything hurt, inside and out. He stumbled into the shower and stood under the stream of tepid rust colored water. The patchwork of fist-sized bruises on his torso were darkening and spreading, their edges fading to a jaundiced yellow. The crust of soap in the stall looked like it’d been previously used, but he didn’t care. He shaved fast and his face burned when he splashed it with aftershave. Even that brought back memories of Nadia.

  Why do you smell like aftershave when you obviously haven’t shaved in days?

  He dried himself with the rough towel, careful of his still tender nose, and stepped into yet another wrinkled gray suit. He tried twice to knot the tie before throwing it in the garbage. His right hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

  He remembered the taste of her lips when she kissed him.

  He came to Dallas seeking redemption, a chance to balance his failure at the Jerseyville crèche. All he wanted was to be the hero, to save the children. He wanted one thing in his life to be proud of; something to hold up and say, I did this. He still wanted that.

  That and vengeance.

  The door closed behind him with a quiet click and he was moving, one painful step after another. Forward. Keep moving forward, toward the target. An arrow that’s been loosed. No looking back. No going back.

  Dallas’ NATU head office was thick with body odor and panic but Griffin hardly noticed. He pushed past the security check points, past the harried secretaries, and into the heart of this sweating gray beast. After much searching he found the office of someone he out-ranked—an intern on his first day—and pointed at the door.

  “Out.”

  The young man, manicured and well-dressed, a Phil waiting to happen, took one look at Griffin and left without comment.

  The office was small and unadorned. No pictures of family or girlfriends. He collapsed into a chair of yellow molded plastic in a thin and rusted steel frame. The desk ran a fast DNA check, examined his thumb and iris, and decided he might be Griffin Dickinson. He then logged in by entering a randomly shifting twenty digit number supplied by an organic microdot chip hidden somewhere in his brain. This sync’d with an algorithm within NATUnet and offered further proof of who he was. Maybe not impossible to beat, but damn difficult. The desk in Dallas downloaded the interface settings from his desk in Toronto. The task usually took no more than a fraction of a second to complete. This time Griffin had to wait ten minutes.

  He tapped the top of the desk and it became a cryptic multi-dimensional display of custom icons, pictograms and hieroglyphs. The desk tracked his eyes, fingers, and thoughts and reacted accordingly.

  Two hours later he’d caught up on the Riina file. It would have been faster, but every time he initiated a new search it took several minutes for the results to return. The loss of the satellites left NATUnet dependent on old, ground-based technology that was no longer up to the task.

  Riina, he learned, did three brief stints in prison as a young man for minor offenses. This was the kind of jail time they did to prove to their bosses they were solid. Once Riina was in The Family his record became clean. Not the clean of a man who didn’t commit crimes, but the clean of a man whose crimes couldn’t be proven. Charges were brought against him for money laundering, tax evasion, and various other nefarious business pursuits. In each case the charges were either dropped before they reached court or beaten with the help of Texas lawyers and judges suspected of being on the Cosa Nostra payroll. Though he found no connection between Riina and black market crèches, Griffin knew it was there. The man was important, but not big enough to run this kind of operation. Not alone. Griffin lay out the questions, looking for connections.

  Who was behind Riina? Where did Riina get the children? Where did Riina get the scanning hardware? Where did Riina get the hardware to store the minds once they’d been scanned?

  He found nothing. One more failure.

  A week ago Riina would have been safe in his cozy NATU cell waiting to be bailed out by his Cosa Nostra family members. Griffin could have questioned him for hours and learned nothing. That was last week. That was a different Griffin.

  Griffin called Phil and the connection dropping three times before he caught his boss as he was about to leave for home. He requested a virtual meeting so he could look his boss in the eye, but had been informed the bandwidth for such a meeting was unavailable.

  He remembered Phil’s office, the mammoth mahogany desk, the black leather SmartSofas exuding professional class and ease. The walls were decorated with awards, degrees, professional recognitions and pictures of Phil fishing with people who looked like they were important. Griffin hadn’t recognized anyone from the pictures. Did people still fish? Could you even eat what you caught? He wasn’t at all sure.

  “Phil, let’s talk.”

  “I want you on the first sub-orbital home.” Phil’s voice sounded like a low-bit digital recording, distorted and crackling.

  “I’m fine.” Griffin didn’t know why he said that. He was anything but fine.

  “Nadia. It’s hard to lose a partner, I know.”

  No the fuck you don’t. Griffin struggled to choke down his anger. “Hardly a partner, we barely knew each other. I’m fine.” Something tightened in his chest. He wanted to smash Phil’s face for forcing him to lie.

  “The Dallas people are on it.” The connection screeched static for a few second then, “There’s an ongoing inquest into what happened at the crèche.”

  “I don’t—”

  “They want someone to answer for all the deaths.”

  “They? The crèche was guarded. What did they think was going to happen?”

  “They want Abdul. He was careless.”

  “He saved our lives.”

  There was a long pause and Griffin wondered if the call had been dropped altogether.

  “You know how it is,” Phil said.

  I do? But that was a fight for tomorrow. Right now he needed Phil’s backing. Hoping Phil would take it as acquiescence, he changed the subject. “Riina tried to have me killed once already. I can use that to shake him up. Maybe shake something loose.”

  “And Wichita?” Phil asked. “Christ, what a cluster fuck. It’s going to take forever to sort that out. Why the hell didn’t you wait for a Strike Team?”

  Griffin’s own doubts thrown in his face. He winced, glad now that Phil couldn’t see him. “Riina would have been gone. I’m close. So close.”

  Phil sounded doubtful. “You’re sure this isn’t personal? We don’t need Riina getting off on a technicality due to...an emotional outburst.”

  “Sir.” Griffin hated calling anyone Sir, but this one hurt more than usual. “Riina is small-time and we both know it.” He rememb
ered the pictures on the wall. “I want the big fish. We’re going to reel these suckers in. It’s going to be huge, I can feel it in my blood.”

  “If this goes badly I’m going to dump the shit-storm fallout square in your lap,” said Phil.

  No kidding. “Yes, Sir.”

  “All right. It’s still your case.”

  Relief fell out of him. He’d done it. “I won’t let you down, Sir.”

  “Screw this up and you’ll be buried so deep in the shit we’ll need a bathysphere to find you.”

  On the way out Griffin stopped by Requisitions and signed out another Glock 36 and four clips of Depleted Uranium Core ammunition. If he shot something he wanted it to go down and stay there. Out on the street he realized he should have hunted down some painkillers.

  Too late. Keep moving.

  If anything, Dallas felt even hotter than usual. No one moved quickly. Life was a sludgy process.

  Griffin expensed another cab to the detention facility where Riina was held. The cab’s windows were down but the air was so hot it felt like he sat in front of an old-fashioned convection oven with the door open. The fist-sized bruises over his spine made sitting back painful so he hunched forward, but that made his guts feel like someone was tenderizing them with a fork. His swollen nose throbbed dull pulses of pain through his skull with every bump the cab hit and the fingertips on his right hand kept telling him they were itchy. He scratched the skin red and raw and then scratched some more. Nothing touched that itch.

  The cab passed so many interactive billboards and advertisements offering all manner of enticements above and beyond eternal life for a few short years of service as a Scan, that Griffin lost count. Not a single ad mentioned the cost of personal chassis or Scan storage gear. A few short years, he suspected, would turn into decades.

  Once in the NATU detention facility Griffin hunted down the virtuality Systems Administrator. The only person wearing shorts and a t-shirt saying, If it was hard to write, it should be hard to read, the Sys Admin was easy to find. His bald head showed no sign of sweat and no wrinkles to suggest an age. He could have been eighteen or forty. There was no hint of a paunch and his legs were well muscled.

  “You must be the Virtuality Systems Administrator.”

  “Must I?”

  “You’re the one person here smart enough to be wearing shorts in this 45°C heat.”

  Slight twitch of an eyebrow. “Touché. You look like you lost a fight with a combat chassis.”

  “Assassin chassis. I have a favor to ask.”

  “That’s funny, I got one to deny.” Deadpanned.

  Griffin blinked. “I’m serious. There’s a Mister Riina down in holding. I need to speak to him. I want to set up the interrogation in a virtuality, but I have some unusual requests. Only someone with complete system access could pull off what I need.”

  The Sys Admin looked a little more interested. “I’m unfamiliar with Riina’s case. Mafia man, right?”

  “Yeah. He killed a NATU operative, my partner, during our investigation into black market kiddie crèches.” Slight stretch of the truth.

  “Oh, dude. If this is some kind of personal vendetta thing, count me out.”

  “No. Well, yeah. I’m not going to kill the guy but I need to know what he knows. It’s the only way I can close this case. It’s the only way I can make her death mean something.”

  The Admin closed his eyes and shook his head. “I dunno. You screw around in a virtual interrogation and I could lose my job.”

  “I can’t do this without you. Look, you’re Root, right? That means you can edit the session logs—”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Okay. I’m not going to hurt Riina but I need him to think I am. I need him to know I can. Right now he’s safe. There’s no way he’ll say a word to us. The case will be dead and closed. She’s dead and it’ll be for nothing. He shot her in the fucking throat.” Griffin stopped and took a deep and shaking breath. His eyes throbbed. If he didn’t keep it together, he’d crack. The Sys Admin watched him, but Griffin couldn’t read the look. “This piece of shit kills little kids and sells their scanned brains. We can’t—” Griffin reined himself in by force of will. “Riina killed one of our own and he’s going to walk free. Are we going to let that happen?”

  “That was a great speech,” the Sys Admin said. “Invigorating. I’m all ready to tear down the walls of society. Fuck the system and all that.”

  Griffin’s hopes deflated.

  “I’m in,” said the Sys Admin. “You have a plan?”

  “It’s more pell-mell with details,” said Griffin.

  “That’s my favorite kind of plan anyway.”

  Griffin sat in the same uniformly gray virtuality cell in which he and Nadia talked to Archaeidae. A v-cell in the Toronto office would look the same, it was like the McDonald’s of interrogation rooms. There were two chairs, one on each side of the table. He placed his hands flat on the table and took several calming breaths. The decision not to wear an off-the-shelf interrogation skin was an easy one. He wanted Riina to recognize him.

  “You ready?” The Sys Admin’s voice was dry and without acoustic reverberation of any kind. It sounded out of place in this stone box.

  “Yeah, I’m ready. You ready?”

  “I’ll play my part.”

  Riina appeared in the other chair and Griffin gave him time to look around.

  “Typical government V-cell,” said Riina, wearing a state-issued orange jumpsuit. “Too cheap to spend anything on detail.” If Riina recognized him, he hid it well. Riina leaned back looking relaxed and comfortable. “Nice suit. Asshole.”

  “I have questions.”

  “No lawyer, no talk. I’ve already made my statement.”

  “Murderer. You kill children. Sell their brains to the highest bidder. All the expensive suits in the world can’t hide the truth.”

  Riina let out an unforced guffaw. “You have nothing on me. Nothing. Six hours and I’m gone. Back to the office.” Riina bared his teeth in a shark’s grin.

  Griffin leaned toward Riina. “I have a treat for you.”

  Riina didn’t pull away, but instead leaned in toward him, resting his arms on the table. “Really? What?”

  “Root?”

  “Yep, I’m listening,” answered the Sys Admin.

  “Root, meet Riina.”

  “Hey, shithead.”

  “Riina, meet Root. Root is pretty much God inside a virtuality like this.” Riina didn’t say anything so Griffin continued. “It’s time.”

  “Gotcha,” answered Root.

  Eyes narrowed, Riina glanced around the small v-cell. “Don’t do anything stupid, gentlemen.”

  Griffin ignored Riina and clenched his right hand into a fist. It didn’t shake in here but it still burned. “Okay, here’s what I want. Crank up his sense of touch. I want him to feel everything.”

  “Done.”

  The Mob boss shifted uncomfortably.

  “Higher receptivity. Way higher. If I poke him with a finger it should feel like I’ve smashed his ribs with a sledge hammer. If I slap him, he should think his head has been crushed in a vice.”

  “Done.”

  Riina became very still and Griffin knew why. If the man moved in the slightest, the simple touch of his clothing would feel like a well-muscled psychotic had taken a cheese grater to his nipples.

  “Fuck you,” whispered Riina. His hands rested palm down on the table top.

  “Next, remove all endorphin or adrenalin modeling. Get rid of anything that will allow him to pass out or feel any less pain.”

  There was a pause. “I don’t know about this,” said Root with the right amount of nervous uncertainty. “Just how much pain are you planning on inflicting? You damage his mind and we’re screwed.”

  “I’m not walking out of here without answers,” snapped Griffin. “Do it.”

  “Fine. Done,” said Root with a shaky voice. Perfect.

  Riina, desperat
e not to move any more than he had to, hissed, “You are so fucked.”

  Griffin laughed like they’d shared a joke. “I think not. You see, Root is...well...Root. This is his place. We’re going to edit all the dialogue later, this is a friendly little chat.” A bluff. Controlling the visual aspects of this interrogation was one thing, but faking all the recorded biometric data would be near impossible. He needed Riina to believe he was willing to cause permanent mental damage. The Mafioso wasn’t there yet, but it was still early. Griffin pushed the table toward Riina, who shied away from its glacial slow movement. “I don’t have to hit you or anything.” He stopped the table just shy of contact.

  Riina breathed in short panting gasps, each inhalation a small whimper. His face twisted in pain, eyes watering, nostrils flaring.

  “Root,” said Griffin. “Shut off his facial expressions. We don’t want it to look like we’re hurting him. Limit his physical mobility as well. Keep him in the chair.” To Riina he said, “You’ll answer my questions or I’ll break you.”

  Riina’s face slackened. He looked bored. Only by staring into his eyes could Griffin get any measure of the pain and terror the man experienced.

  “Okay it’s done,” answered Root. “But you’ve lost your damned mind. This isn’t worth my job. You’re gonna cabbage his brain at this rate.”

  Griffin grinned at Riina. “I’m okay with that.” He gave Riina a happy wink. The man had to believe he’d become unstable. “How much pain are you in?” he whispered. “I’m going to stand up and accidentally push this table into you. It’s going to feel like you’ve been hit by a car.”

  “Stop,” Riina whispered.

  “You see, the thing of it is...you haven’t told me anything yet.” Griffin leaned forward held his itching right hand above Riina’s left hand. “If I squeeze your hand...”

  A high-pitched whine escaped Riina’s slack lips. “Haven’t asked—”

  “Questions. Right. Not much point if you’re not going to answer. Anyway, we’ve been in here what, maybe three minutes? I have all the time in the world.” Griffin lowered his hand until it almost touched Riina’s. “This is going to hurt. It’ll feel like I’m scraping flesh from bone. You’ll pray for the cool black of unconsciousness. It will never come. Never.”