Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  A small domed cleaning drone, less than three feet tall and half that width, followed Archaeidae into the office like an obedient dog. In its extended manipulators hung a plastic and steel box, medical white and not much larger than a human skull. One side of the box was transparent, displaying its empty innards.

  Agent Dickinson, slumped against a bookcase, shook his head as if in denial. “Archaeidae?”

  Archaeidae gave a deep bow.

  Both Jotei 88 and Shogun 88.1 watched the proceedings, riding piggy-back on Archaeidae’s sensoria, surfing the conscripted NATUnet bandwidth.

  88, who had yet to relinquish her control of NATUnet, allowed 88.1 to speak to Archaeidae over the tight-link. The big one at the desk is Miles Pert. He designed M-Sof’s defenses. He is the one I want.

  Archaeidae extended a hand and the Mirror-driven cleaning drone handed him the Brainbox. He turned to the fat man sitting at the desk. “Please remain seated but move away from the desk.”

  “Why?” asked Miles, glancing around the office. He stayed put, one hand still resting on the desk as if by retaining contact with it he kept some measure of control. He was wrong.

  The katana licked out of its sheath, rapped Miles stingingly on the back of his hand, and returned to the scabbard before the glacially slow human even knew the chassis had moved.

  Flawless Iaidō. Machine precision.

  “Move now or die.”

  Miles stared at his knuckles as they turned red and began to swell. “Ow!” Still seated, he slid the SmartChair away from the desk. It glided over the thick carpeting.

  Griffin, eyeing where the 5THSUN chassis dropped his Tavor 41, tensed.

  “I see you have a new hand,” said Archaeidae. “Be a shame to lose it again so soon.” Not that it mattered. The gun was empty. He could tell by the way it bounced when it landed.

  Archaeidae moved closer to Miles, the snaky, sinuous move of a dancer. Silent and ever poised. “You have a choice to make, Miles.” He waited until the fat man was looking at him and held up the Brainbox. “It seems your skills with data systems and fire-walls have caught his interest.”

  “No.” The fat man face turned red and his breath came in short gasps. “Please, no.”

  “You intrigue him. He wants your brain.”

  Miles looked to be on the edge of panic. His voice squeaked, “He?”

  “88.1, Shogun to Jotei 88.”

  Miles’ eyes widened with bewilderment. “Empress? What the—Is this some kind of game you’re playing?” His face flushed with anger and fear and sweat stood beaded on his forehead. “Well...well I’m not playing! You can’t take my head.”

  “Can and will. The question is, do I cut it from your body and stuff it in the box after the fact, or will you go with some shred of dignity?”

  Shaking his head Miles backed the chair away from Archaeidae who followed in a menacing glide. “No.”

  “Do not make the mistake of thinking we are negotiating. Mine is the stronger will. I define this reality.”

  Miles’ eyes were bright and wet. “You define this reality? You’re insane!”

  Archaeidae, watching everything in three-hundred and sixty degrees, saw Agent Dickinson’s eyes dart towards the hall. He saw the man’s thoughts writ plainly on his face. “Don’t be silly Dickinson, there’s no escape.” He cornered Miles. “Why are you being difficult? It’s not like you’re going to die.”

  ***

  Incredulous, Miles retreated to sarcasm in self-defense. “You’re going to chop off my head. That sounds a lot like death to me.”

  “What the hell is going on?” snapped Lokner.

  “Shut up.” Archaeidae shook his head. “You people have neither meiyo, nor yū. No honor, or courage.”

  Lokner remained quiet, but the silence was palpable.

  Eyes fixed on Archaeidae, Miles said, “Can’t I meet this Jotei 88? Can’t she ask me a few questions and let me go?”

  “No.”

  Miles continued to back away, still sitting in his chair.

  “Fine,” said Archaeidae, sounding annoyed. He turned and advanced on Christie. “I’ll brutally murder her first; death by a thousand cuts. You get to watch. I’ll peel her like a grape and take your head when I’m finished. Is that unpleasant enough?” The assassin chassis sounded like an exasperated child.

  Miles looked at Christie, her eyes imploring him to find a way out, to somehow stay this execution. He shook his head and mouthed the word sorry. Not really death, he told himself. Not really death.

  “Okay,” said Miles to Archaeidae. “You win. It’s all right, Christie.”

  Christie’s eyes were red and tears streamed down her cheeks leaving dark stained trails of eyeliner.

  “I wish I’d asked you out,” said Miles.

  “Me too,” she said.

  Archaeidae, he realized, now stood behind his chair. Miles hadn’t even seen him move. This assassin wanted to see some yū? Fine. “What are we waiting for?”

  The chassis twitched. Miles’ dreads fell away to the floor. For the first time in years he felt a cool breeze on the back of his neck. It was cold. The box dropped over Miles’ head and the sounds of the office became tinny, muted and distant. He heard the wash of the ocean like he had both ears pressed against conch shells. He looked out the transparent faceplate and saw Christie raise a hand towards him, slim fingers spread as if she’d catch his soul. Miles didn’t even believe in souls.

  Hey, about to die and still an atheist. Not bad, he was impressed with himself. His gaze darted around, drinking in every last detail in the room. Did they have to make this thing so he could see out?

  He heard a quiet sip and his ears popped.

  That was weird.

  Christie’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in a scream. Distant and muffled, Miles hardly heard it. She crumpled to the ground, catching her temple on the corner of the desk. And then his view spun dizzyingly and he faced the NATU agent.

  Wait! He was still alive! It hadn’t worked! He peered out of the corner of his eye, trying to catch a glimpse of his body. Was that blood? The carpet seemed to be changing color. Everything went gray.

  ***

  Lokner tried the tight-link. Androctonus? Hello? Answer me god damn it!

  Nothing.

  Sawscale? Anybody?

  Nothing.

  What the hell was going on out there? There was someone new in the room. There were definite threats of violence. Who was it? Who did they represent?

  His office shrank with a shuddering wrench and the door loomed, towering twenty feet tall over his desk. The countdown on the wall was so huge and bright he cringed from its fierce light.

  No. No.

  The door bulged inwards from the weight of the terrible souls pressing against it.

  Lokner, unable to do more than listen to the events unfolding, crawled under his desk. Vulnerable and alone, he’d been abandoned by everyone. His Cc-Security chassis were all dead. Miles had betrayed him. The things at the door grew stronger by the second. He felt them pushing, straining to get in.

  They want their revenge.

  ***

  Griffin watched the Brainbox settle on Miles’ shoulders. He wanted to dive forward, tear the box free, and wrestle it away from the assassin chassis. Even if he died, at least it would be a hero’s death. But he couldn’t. His body refused to move. How had Abdul done it? How had he hurled himself between Griffin and death? Did he not have time to think about it?

  The box swung away from Miles’ body, which remained sitting upright in the chair hosing great gouts of blood from the crisply sliced carotid artery. The breath Miles had been holding gushed out the severed neck in a wet vomit of blood and escaping air. The corpse seemed to deflate before Griffin’s eyes. The legs and arms shuddered for a few seconds and then fell still. A piece of meat.

  So fixated on watching the corpse, Griffin hadn’t noticed Christie faint until she lay on the ground, temple swelling. He turned to Archaeidae and found hims
elf staring Miles in the face. The eyes blinked. Griffin watched, mesmerized. The eyes glazed over, and a soft green light and polite ping emanated from the Brainbox.

  “Hey, he blinked and looked around,” said Archaeidae. “Is that not the coolest thing?”

  Griffin turned from the box and Miles’ dead face to Archaeidae. “No.”

  Archaeidae held the box up to his face and peered inside. “Hmm.” He sounded disappointed.

  ***

  The countdown on Lokner is still ticking. Move to the desk so I can access the interface, said Jotei 88 over the tight-link.

  Archaeidae had been so enjoying himself he’d forgotten both his Empress and Shogun witnessed everything through his chassis’ sensoria.

  “Yes, Jotei,” Archaeidae said aloud, forgetting to sub-vocalize. Play time was over—back to business.

  Moving to the desk Archaeidae took a backseat as 88 commanded control of the chassis. Though she had not been able to crack Miles’ Wall o’ Nuclear Annihilation from the outside, once within the heart of 5THSUN, the task was accomplished in seconds.

  “Hey,” said Lokner, sounding both terrified and hopeful. “The clock reset.”

  “Correct.”

  “Move the door back too,” Lokner pleaded.

  “Door? You will answer questions now.”

  “If I answer your questions, will you free me?”

  Archaeidae suggested 88 agree. For 88 there was no moral or ethical conundrum, no guilt. She trusted Archaeidae’s understanding of social dynamics far more than she trusted her own.

  “Yes,” said 88.

  “Ask your questions,” said Lokner. “But please move the door.”

  Again with the door. What the hell was he talking about?

  “Were you involved with the Anisio Jobin crèche in Brazil?” asked 88.

  “If I answer your questions, will you kill the NATU agent?”

  “Yes,” answered 88.

  Over the intercom Archaeidae heard what sounded like a man crawling around on a thick carpet in an expensive suit.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Agent Dickinson,” sneered Lokner.

  Griffin stood quiet, watching and listening.

  “Answer the damn question,” growled Archaeidae.

  “You must realize, I am the only person who can answer such questions.”

  ***

  The answering voice was flat. “No. I have the original Lokner Scan. If you won’t answer my questions, he will.”

  Lokner1.0 was still alive? Lokner2.0 felt a surge of terror at the thought.

  “I’ll answer your questions if you promise to kill the other Lokner,” he said.

  The answer was immediate. “Done.”

  “And protect me from the....” He couldn’t say it. He heard the sound of small, high pitched voices, screams of playground happiness and endless rage from beyond the door.

  “Done.”

  He breathed relief. It wasn’t finished yet. Anisio Jobin, he’d been thinking about that crèche this morning. “Okay. Yes, I was involved with the Anisio Jobin crèche. It was one of my most brilliant successes. Prenatal manipulation for superior product.”

  “Did you supply the Central American Crime families with black market Scans?”

  Lokner2.0 thought this over. Every question contained as much information as it asked for. He put the pieces together. Everything clicked into place. Anisio Jobin’s most successful project was....

  88.

  Jotei 88.

  Oh shit.

  He was talking to the Scan he’d sent four chassis to kill. Shouldn’t it be dead already? Had his assassins failed, or had they been delayed? He needed to know. Should he be stalling for time or trying to wrangle a new deal? It all depended on what 88 knew.

  Did 88 know Lokner had sent assassins after her?

  “You’re stalling, answer the question.”

  Had the voice sounded different that time? Mark didn’t have time to think about it. He could still win this. Stay focused, wait for the opening. “Yes, I supplied them with Scans.”

  “Do you know who my mother is?”

  He saw it. This was the leverage he’d been looking for. He searched his memories and, afraid to be seen as stalling, started talking as it came back to him. “Yes. We artificially inseminated her with genetically altered sperm. She sold you before you were even conceived. She was a whore. She died during childbirth.”

  “You lie! I have memories of my mother.”

  ***

  That definitely wasn’t Archaeidae, noted Griffin, but it was the first time he’d heard emotion in the other voice.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lokner. “There was a wet nurse, and later there were others who took care of you and taught you what was needed. Whatever you remember, it wasn’t your mother. But I can help you,” he continued quickly. “We can help each other. I made you. I understand you better than anyone. I can teach you how to survive. You and I, we’re different.”

  “Really?” asked the chassis. Griffin heard the desperate hope of a small child in the voice. It was a tone Archaeidae would never use.

  If 88 or Archaeidae or whoever was in there fell for Lokner’s bullshit, Griffin was a dead man. He might be anyway. Nothing to lose.

  “He’s a manipulative lying bastard,” said Griffin.

  “Shut it, Dickinson,” snapped Lokner angrily. “I’m not lying.”

  “He can’t be trusted,” said the assassin chassis. Archaeidae again, Griffin felt sure. “This man is a toad. A man so willing to betray himself is no man to follow.”

  “Do away with these distractions and let us discuss this,” said Lokner. He sounded desperate. “Kill the agent, turn off this damn countdown, and please god move the door back it’s too tight in here!”

  ***

  88 felt unprepared for this. “You sent assassins to Costa Rica to kill me,” she said, confused.

  “See it from my angle,” Lokner explained desperately. “You took control of M-Sof, my company. I was trying to get back what’s mine.”

  It made sense. Had Lokner’s assassins succeeded, he would have been able to regain control of M-Sof. Then there was the economic attack this Lokner had launched against her. But that attack was never against 88 but rather an oblique attack on the original Lokner Scan. The stunning devious ingenuity of the plan left 88 in awe.

  He’s too dangerous.

  She remembered Riina’s words regarding Archaeidae: He’s naturally very loyal. Lokner, a man who willingly attacked himself, showed none of that. Lokner couldn’t be trusted.

  It didn’t matter. Mom was dead. 88’s dreams were dead. All she remembered were wet-nurses and teachers. Pain beyond comprehension. In reaction to the seething turmoil within, her personal virtuality changed to suit her needs. The familiar comfort of gritty stone. Cracks in the floor. She’d been built, designed. A tool to be used and cast aside. She rocked back and forth, her thin fingers followed the familiar veins of a hairline crack.

  No one loved her. Alone. No one had ever loved her. Gutted and hollowed out. Nothing left but anger.

  She felt the painful tug of the TPN catheter in her arm. Total Parenteral Nutrition. She knew that now, understood it. Who was the woman she remembered? Had she cared for 88 at all?

  Now that 88 had exposed herself, NATU’s agents would search her out. The Cuntrera-Caruana clan were still coming for her. Surrounded by enemies on all sides. Five hundred and seventy million humans in the North American Trade Union alone. Over eight and a half billion worldwide. They would turn on her.

  Overhead a fluorescent tube crackled and hummed and she felt herself drawn to its actinic light.

  Finish this, she said to Archaeidae as she slipped away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Sunday, August 6th, 2046

  Empress 88’s presence was gone. Shogun 88.1 disappeared next. Archaeidae, alone in the chassis, contemplated the choices before him.

  Yes, my Jotei, he replied, unsure if his words were received.

  Fini
sh this. What did that mean? Was he supposed to kill everyone?

  Griffin and Archaeidae stood staring at one another, the room silent.

  Archaeidae shifted the crumpled stump of a cigar around in his mouth. He suddenly wanted very much to light it.

  Lokner broke the silence. “I can’t breathe,” he whined petulantly. “Is anyone still alive? Hello?”

  “The Empress is gone.” Archaeidae shifted the brainbox containing Miles’ head to a lower set of limbs previously hidden by the duster coat and drew the smoky-bladed katana. “How much time is left on the countdown?”

  “Three and a half minutes. You’d better—”

  “Enjoy them.” With a flick of his sword Archaeidae killed the intercom connection. He turned to face Griffin.

  “Leave her.” Griffin gestured to Christie, still unconscious on the floor. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  Archaeidae looked at the sprawled woman, her skirt exposing long dusky legs. Something about her skin, her curves, reminded Archaeidae of the woman from the hotel. The woman with the deadly camera bag. He returned his attention to Griffin. “Not pleading for your own life, Agent Dickinson?”

  “Would there be a point?”

  “No.”

  “Well then.”

  Archaeidae stepped towards Griffin. “This will be as painless as I can make it, honored opponent.”

  Griffin pushed himself upright, no longer leaned against the bookcase. “If you think I’m going down without a fight you are wrong.”

  Was Griffin’s willingness to fight against impossible odds somehow different than Miles’ stubborn refusal to accept the inevitable? It felt different.

  Archaeidae moved menacingly closer and Griffin stood his ground, his cheap gray suit crumpled and powdered white with plaster stained red where it had been splashed with blood. Some of it Miles’, some no doubt Griffin’s own. The fingers of his right hand were bent, splayed at awkward angles, and the hand clutched tight to his belly.

  This feels wrong. He owed this man. “You’re unarmed,” pointed out Archaeidae. “Get the Tavor. I’ll give you time to load it.”