Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Where is the damned pharmacy?

  ***

  Abdul, waiting on the steps of the Redmond NATU building, watched Griffin’s approach. The man staggered more than walked. Hunched and oblivious to the pedestrians scattering from his path, Griffin didn’t notice Abdul and was about to pass him by.

  “Boss.”

  The NATU agent stopped and looked up. His eyes, sunk deep into the orbital bones, were bloodshot. His face, the color of rancid tallow, darkened to a jaundiced purple around the eyes. He wore a beard of dried blood and seemed unaware of it.

  I’ve seen healthier corpses. “Rough day?” Abdul asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Griffin was curt. “We’re on the job. Not so anonymous tip. Lokner is in Reno. The dead end has been resuscitated.” He stalked past the chassis on his way up the steps to the NATU building entrance.

  Abdul remained where he stood, watching the retreating agent. “Are you okay?” he called out, regretting the inane stupidity of the question.

  “No.”

  Griffin disappeared into the building, leaving Abdul alone on the steps. People darted quick, nervous glances at the chassis as they passed.

  “I’m fine,” he said to one young woman as she hurried by pushing a stroller bearing two small children. “I’m not crazy at all.” She picked up her pace. “You have to be able to feel things to be crazy,” he called after her.

  It wasn’t true of course.

  ***

  Griffin walked straight to the desk in the lobby, bypassing the line of people waiting to get beyond the security cordon. He slapped his ID down on the surface with a leathery thwack.

  “Get me an office. Now.”

  The officer on duty scowled at the badge and then, seeing Griffin’s face, decided it wasn’t worth the fight. He was waved through Security and his gun taken. He could collect it when he left.

  A NATU security chassis, a sleek new General Dynamics model shaped a like a cross between a greyhound and a praying mantis, intercepted him. “Please Sir, follow me,” it said politely.

  “Where to?”

  “I’m to lead you to an unused office.”

  Griffin eyed the chassis with distrust. “Archaeidae?”

  “Pardon, Sir?”

  “Nothing. Lead on.”

  The office was thick with dust and the desk took several minutes to boot. Once he’d downloaded his interface he hesitated. This could be it. Phil could pull him off the case right now, bring him home and lock him in a cubicle for the rest of his miserable shit life.

  He remembered wanting that. Not now.

  Better to get things done before Phil revoked his security clearance.

  Nothing would stop him. Certainly not Phil.

  He first booked space for himself and Abdul on the next military flight to Reno, getting the easy stuff out of the way. Next he called Reno’s NATU office and requisitioned another two and a half ton truck. Still pretty easy, and the Requisitions Officer put up no fight. So far so good.

  Now for the hard part.

  He sat for several minutes, composing himself, before making the call. Thinking tough thoughts was one thing, but the reality was different. He needed Phil’s backing. The man must see no hint of emotion. Griffin must be coldly professional. Bottled.

  The call took several seconds to connect.

  “Dickinson, what the fuck is going on?” Phil’s voice crackled with digital distortion.

  No Griff today. Griffin took some small pleasure from his boss’ anger. “I’ve got this case all but sewn up—”

  “All but is right. You fucked the monkey on this one.”

  Fucked the monkey? What the hell did that mean? “I need—”

  “I want you on the next sub-orbital home. You’re going to take two weeks medical leave and then I’m going to fire you. What the hell were you thinking waving a gun in a hotel lobby? You think I wouldn’t hear about this?”

  “Extenuating—”

  “Half a Strike Team, dead. Nadia. Dead. Great fucking PR that was.”

  “I have the big fish on my line,” Griffin said, desperate.

  “You have shit on a stick. I heard about what happened in the Dallas virtuality. Riina is dead. His crèche was burnt to the ground. Over one-hundred cooked children. How many damned corpses you planning on racking up before we call it a day? Your combat chassis is cracking. Didn’t pass the last psyche test. Not even close. They took it off active duty for a reason.”

  Abdul was his combat chassis? “It? Abdul is fine. I need—”

  “This case is closed.”

  Griffin’s heart dropped into the acid pit of his stomach. Phil could shut him down right here and now. He couldn’t do this by himself. “Phil, please. Trust me on this. It’s huge.”

  “What’s huge is the shit mess you’ve made out of this simple case. You’re done. Next flight—”

  “Mark Lokner. M-Sof.”

  “What?”

  “Mark Lokner, owner and CEO—”

  “I know who the fuck he is,” snapped Phil.

  “He’s not dead. Scanned. He’s behind the crèches. Supplies gear. Cherry picks the best product.”

  The line went quiet for a few seconds and Griffin worried the call had been dropped. Then Phil asked, “The recent attack on M-Sof’s facility in Redmond?”

  “All part of it.” Griffin didn’t mention he didn’t know how the events were linked, but he felt sure they were. “Cosa Nostra attack.” It was all guesswork, but as likely as anything else.

  “You’re serious?”

  Griffin nodded and regretted it. His head felt like his brain had swelled to bursting. “I know where he is.”

  “I’ll put together a Strike Team. Where is he?”

  “No. No way. This is mine. I’ve been through too much to let someone else take this away from me. Don’t do that to me, Phil.”

  “From the second I put you on that Jerseyville crèche raid, you have fucked up absolutely everything. I never should have put a junior in the field. At this point, I’m not sure I even trust you with a desk. How many people would die if I sent you for coffee? No way you’re leading a bust this big. It’s too important.”

  “It’s me or no one,” Griffin said with more resolution than he felt. “Get me a Strike Team.”

  “No. Forget it.”

  “Wait a moment, I have to put you on hold. Someone here is trying to get my attention.” Griffin killed the connection and hurried from the office. They had to be in the air before Phil found and canceled his requisitions.

  ***

  Abdul discovered if he stood still, many people mistook him for a statue. Most would walk by, oblivious to his existence. Some looked confused—that wasn’t there last time—and kept going. A young couple stood before him, arguing their way toward an inevitable breakup. They left in opposite directions, both crying. Abdul envied the depth of emotion and the tears. He couldn’t feel anything that deeply. Except those few emotions They allowed him. He could feel anger.

  Oh, he felt anger.

  Staff Sergeant Abdul Aziiz-Giordano? It was an officer, no doubt stationed at some local military base, contacting him over the tight-link.

  Nice timing. Yeah? To hell with Sirs and respect.

  As of this moment you are no longer on active duty.

  Uh huh.

  Abdul saw Griffin exit the NATU building and watched his careful approach. The NATU agent looked to be holding his body together through sheer force of will. That will was fraying.

  A truck has been sent to collect you.

  “You’ll never tan,” said Griffin to Abdul’s back.

  “All kinds of funny,” he said to Griffin. “So, how’d it go?”

  Griffin shrugged and then winced in discomfort. “I talked to my boss.”

  No doubt that went well. “And?” When will the truck arrive? Abdul asked the officer.

  “He says you’re crazy.”

  Ah, that. It was bound to come up eventually. �
��I take it we part ways here.”

  The truck will arrive within the hour, Staff Sergeant.

  “What on earth for?” Griffin looked surprised. “Abdul, I can’t do this alone. There is no one I would rather have watching my back.”

  “Oh, so I’m supposed to be a subservient step behind you?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I know. I’m messing with your head.”

  “When we’re done, you’re getting some damned facial expressions.”

  “Yes boss. When we leaving?”

  “Truck should be here any minute.”

  “Perfect.” I’ll be here waiting, Abdul told the officer. “Asshole.” When Griffin backed away a step looking hurt, Abdul said, “Not you. I was taking a call at the same time.”

  “Everything okay?”

  Abdul considered telling Griffin everything. “Peachy,” he said.

  Griffin, looking uncertain, noticed the approaching truck Abdul had been watching for what seemed like an eternity. “Here’s our ride to the airport.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Sunday, August 6th, 2046

  Lost in thought, Lokner2.0 prowled his spartan office. Things had not gone strictly to plan. What a fucking understatement. It started so well and went screaming headfirst into the shitter like one of those diving birds going after fish.

  He’d launched an attack against the Central American Mafia business interests using M-Sof and Lokner1.0 as his vehicle. The Mafia reply was harsher than he anticipated but still achieved the result he hoped for: The original Lokner Scan was dead. Somewhere along the way, however, Lokner2.0 felt as if he lost control. The dominoes fell chaotically. What he had not foreseen was the level of technological advancement the Central American Mafia had achieved. Not only did they blow the hell out of the M-Sof Redmond facility, an intensity of reprisal he had not expected, but they also somehow corrupted the M-Sof intranet systems in such a way Lokner2.0 was locked out. He could no longer access or manipulate M-Sof stocks or systems. The Mob controlled his company and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

  And then, to make matters worse, some nut-job terrorist organization obliterated the world’s network of Global Positioning and Communications satellites making even the simplest communications a royal pain in the ass. His plans for the future depended on manipulating the markets and to do that he needed to communicate with them and to do so quickly.

  It’s like all the world is against me.

  He thought about asking Miles for help, but the idea left such a foul taste he tossed it aside. An odd sensation prickled the back of his neck, the feeling someone stared at him from behind. Lokner2.0 spun and glared at his office door. He sat, staring at the closed door, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. Had he heard something? Did someone stand outside the door? He strained to catch the faint sound of soft breath.

  Nothing.

  Mark rose and crept toward the office door, tip-toeing across the thick carpeting in his custom designer dress shoes, silent as a ghost.

  You are a ghost.

  “Shush.”

  He leaned forward, ear to the door, listening. Was that the faint sound of small voices?

  Mark wrenched the door open and the empty hall was so startling he screamed. The fuckers were running away! He managed a dozen running steps into the hall before sliding to a halt. He felt naked and vulnerable here. They want me out here! They were trying to lure him out of his office. He was safe there. He took a tentative backward step toward sanctuary and felt the hall fill with malice. The walls dripped venomous hate. They were coming. Lokner2.0 spun and sprinted back into his office, a thousand deaths hot on his heels. The office door slammed closed barely in time and he collapsed sobbing on the carpet. Once he regained his breath he pushed himself to his knees and crawled to the door to lock it. He sat with his back to the door, looking at his shoes. They cost over four-thousand Au. No, wait. These weren’t real. Does that mean they were free?

  “What the hell was that all about?” He glanced around the office. The walls were barren, clean and safe. “Miles. It must have been Miles.” Lokner couldn’t believe the fat fucker programmed some kind of evil spirit into the hall. “He’s getting cocky. He thinks that because I’m dead I’m out of the picture.

  You are dead.

  “Yes, but not out of the picture.” A titter slipped out.

  You killed those children. You stirred their brains with a fork and lived off their thoughts like a vampire. You raped their minds, skull-fucking them with your—

  Mark slapped himself across the face, hard. “Shut up. This isn’t the time.” His face stung and eyes watered.

  Ow.

  “Shush. What should I do about Miles? If I tell him I know about the ghosts he’ll get a chuckle and think he’s won.” Mark thrust out his belly and flared his nostrils. “I scared bad old Mister Lokner,” he did a poor impersonation of Miles’ voice. “I’m a fat and funny bitch. I think I’m smarter than everyone else but I’ve got my head stuffed so far up my ass I can’t see what’s coming my way.”

  Mark crawled on all fours back to his desk. Shoving the chair out of his way he slid into the alcove designed for his knees and feet. This was a place of power and safety, he could tell.

  “So Miles has some little nastiness running around the halls. Well, the joke is on him. I’ll pretend like I haven’t noticed, like I don’t even care.”

  We don’t need to leave the office anyway.

  “There’s no we, just me.”

  Right, just you. All alone.

  Mark, sitting crammed under his desk, thought about that. He didn’t want to be alone. It was nice having someone to talk to.

  “Fine, we.”

  Once he felt centered and in control he crawled from under his desk and began pacing. It felt good to know there was such a powerful place he could retreat to.

  You’re a copy.

  “Please, not now.”

  Lokner2.0 prided himself on his adaptability. The loss of M-Sof had been a crushing blow but he was hardly penniless. 5THSUN was a successful company and his offshore accounts still held billions in Au and Euros (though god only knew what those were worth these days). That loss, combined with the destruction of the satellites, would increase the time scale of his plan, but time was one thing he had.

  I am forever.

  The Mafia had outlived their usefulness. They’d become dangerous. How to strike at them and permanently remove them as a threat was a difficult question. He admitted that if there were a way of forever wiping out the Mafia, some overzealous law-enforcement branch would have done so already. Lokner2.0 adapted his goals to fit the reality.

  “I have to hit them somewhere that will weaken them enough I can regain control of M-Sof.”

  What about our other plans? What about building the future?

  “We need to do this first.”

  Are you sure? You aren’t stalling because you’ve lost your way?

  Mark licked his lips, struggled to quell the rising doubts. He was lost. His plans were flaking apart like ash in a windstorm. The M-Sof people he planned on taking—the ones 1.0 stole—were gone, beyond his reach. Maybe even dead. It felt like an insurmountable obstacle.

  No. I can still do this. He was Mark Fucking Lokner. He always won. Right?

  The original always won. The first copy, 1.0 is dead and gone. He didn’t win. What chance do we have?

  “We can still do this.”

  Once the Mafia are out of the way.

  “Yes. Them first. Then the future.”

  It occurred to him he had a means of striking at them they couldn’t trace. Once he had a target, he could send some of his combat chassis to wreak bloody havoc. It was distasteful, but sometimes hard choices had to be made.

  His target was obvious. The Scan running the Mob’s businesses and investments in Central America. If this Scan ran all their other businesses, which appeared to be the
case, chances were it now ran what remained of M-Sof as well. If he could shut down the Scan, it’d cripple them and might give him back control of his company.

  Mark thought it through. No doubt the Mafia used a Scan from one of his boutique crèches. It might not have possessed his flare and style, but he’d been impressed by its flawless timing and manipulation of marketing data.

  Manipulation. Data. That was the key.

  Where Riina’s crèche specialized in producing combat-worthy Scans, the crèche in the Anisio Jobin prison in Brazil concentrated on designing children from before birth to be better computers. They experimented with manipulating fetuses, injecting prenatal testosterone in an attempt at creating children inclined toward an interest in systems and with an increased attention to minute detail. They were trying to create pseudo-autistic savant children who would still be valuable and viable as Scans. In fact, a child who was autistic in the right way was often worth far more than even a classically intelligent child. Their brains came pre-focused and there was no need for all the messy psyche-programming and brainwashing, neither of which guaranteed results. Many attempts ended in disastrous failure, though there had been a few successes.

  Mark hunted through his records, looking for likely candidates. One in particular leaped out. Child number 88. He skimmed the data. The Scan, purchased by the Cuntrera-Caruana family operating out of San José, Costa Rica, sold for an unprecedented thirty million Au.

  There it was, floating right before his eyes: The delivery address. No doubt a hovel in the Cuntrera-Caruana run part of La Carpio.

  “Gotcha little fucker!”

  Is the Scan still there? Have they moved it?

  “Why would they bother?”

  It seemed unlikely the Mafia would have fitted 88 with a chassis, such a thing would be a distraction to their little autistic computer.

  Mark sat and put his feet up on his desk. He laced his fingers behind his head and rocked in the chair. His gaze flicked around the room and desktop, not really seeing, mirroring the activity in his brain. He’d never had to cause the death of a child before, at least not directly. Not real death anyway. Sure, the children who died to become Scans were at least partially his responsibility, but those children were freed to live grander existences. It was a mercy killing and one allowing them to reach their full potential.