He was suffering from moral injury. Whatever happened at the bar last time, it really hurt him. Completely unaware of how the duality inside her mind was fluttering, she said out loud, “It would have been nice to have a partner in all this. But yeah, you’re right. We did the right thing.”
We should have filed a report from Harvey’s terminal before we left. When they pulled into another one road labor town a half day later, they sent a message to the Matron that read simply, “An informant implicated Officer Brennan in undocumented activities worthy of summary execution.” They knew that such a vague account of what happened would look bad on their record, but they were afraid more details would jeopardize their mission. I know the first Marshal said to make ourselves visible, but we need to avoid towns where we’re obligated to make full reports for a while. If there is an evil Brennan, we can’t trust the Matron either.
After interviewing the bartender and a few patrons, they learned nothing and got back on their bike. Bouncing between remote outposts and unmarked desert workshops, the Logo accessed a few LANs in search of information, but the Marshal did not log onto any the way they had in Buena Vista. Remembering Air Assault was like revisiting a nightmare, and she was glad as it grew more distant. Weeks went by, and they spent as much time as they could meeting locals, but more of it was wasted on the back of the Longcoat. Staring out at the infinite expanse of desert that continued to zoom by, the Marshal tried to summon the love she had felt while pressing her hand against the hospital window on the day she was born, but exposure to the elements was dulling the memory.
Throughout the long, hot, repetitive rides across the desert, debates about the Matron’s intentions were constantly rattling around inside their head. The dichotomy between the Logo’s AI and their biological brain was getting worse, but their thoughts kept coming back to whether the planet’s steward was colluding with the board of trustees or acting alone. We should have known something was wrong back at the hospital. That doctor was a piece of work. He probably didn’t have anything to do with it. I know, it’s just nice to have an individual to blame.
Even though the first Marshal had corroborated their worst fears about corruption, she was still having trouble accepting them. Whenever they started to suspect the Matron directly, their attention gravitated towards even broader issues, but they hadn’t noticed that trend. We can’t blame smugglers like Morton for the animal trade. The only reason poachers are even being spawned is because of offworld demand. We’re never going to solve any of this Earthside. The problem is in outer space.
Neither half of the Marshal wanted to admit that they had been born into a broken system, and preoccupied by denial, she still hadn’t noticed that her artificial and biological minds were competing for dominance. Their focus flitted between glimpses of the tranquil sense of duty that she had been born with and the blight of corruption all around them, which left little time for introspection. The cohesion of their thoughts wavered like a mirage in the endless expanse of sand in front of her, and the more they tried to focus on any one in particular, the faster it would disappear. What the hell is Natural Order anyway?!
More than a month later, one thing was crystal clear—Harvey was right about migrant laborers being slaves. They had visited dozens of sweatshops, each one filled with the same absent-minded little people, their bodies moving with unnatural automation as they worked on innocuous yet illegal projects via CBi. The Marshal’s deep-seated anti-machine conditioning still brought up a burning compulsion to kill every last one of them, but the more she talked with them, the more empathy they had for their situation.
For starters, migrants used a lot of quaint Old Earth dialects and idioms, which helped remind the Marshal that they were still human. None of the little people had Souls of their own, they weren’t able to send or receive information through the embargo, but they were able to live more freely inside virtual worlds. Their CBi possession and addiction to VR still seemed like a heinous waste of life, but watching them socialize with each other between long stints in the desert workshops made it clear how thoroughly they were trapped. They were born fully grown just like she was, except in hospitals that were far below USi quality guidelines, and they spent their entire lives paying for the privilege.
The Marshal had started to notice some stark similarities between their lives of indentured servitude and her personal commitment to duty. Granted, she had full authority over her mission and could do anything she pleased atop the Longcoat, but she could feel how her meticulously engineered genetics influenced her decisions. She had been born into the uppermost echelon of society, whereas these poor saps were hanging on the bottom rung, but none of them were free to choose their place in the world. Despite their differences, they had all been put on Earth with a purpose, and were in their own ways part of Natural Order. Migrant laborers were an indispensable part of a broken economic system, and killing enough of them might hurt the pockets of the bastards who exploited illicit labor, but it wasn’t going to fix anything.
Plus, word had gone around about what happened at the mini-mall, and although many of the working folk were understandably reluctant to be interviewed, just as many were scared enough to tell her everything. Knowing full well that she was a cop, some would even brag about the illicit details of their endeavors. As explicit as the laws against what these people were doing were, the Marshal realized, they didn’t consider breaking it to be wrong. They weren’t brazen criminals, they just didn’t have any other options.
Unfortunately, none of the laborers that the Marshal had met thus far knew anything useful. A few of them claimed to have associated with Studebaker Hawk before the rebellion with Mister Morton, but they were all under the impression that he had died in the struggle. Everyone had at least heard of the “smuggler king,” and a fair number admitted to having worked for him directly. They told similar stories about his disappearance after the crater, and although they all claimed to think he was dead, a few had become visibly nervous while talking about recent changes in Mechanicsburg. The Marshal had pressed those unfortunate bastards pretty hard for details, and they gave up some innocuous suspicions about where contract money was coming from, so she hadn’t had to kill any of them over it.
Labor migrations were fairly predictable, and the Logo had been rotating in a pattern that optimized how many new people they could meet every week, but it still felt like they were having the same conversations every day. Knowing that Harvey would be obligated to mention seeing her in his daily reports, they had avoided Buena Vista for nearly two months, but after their first complete circuit through the territory suggested by the first Marshal, they decided to check in. Right away, the bartender told them that Officer Brennan had been respawned and sent on a special detail in the southlands to deal with a growing poacher problem. It wasn’t that going to look for the Peacekeeper’s reincarnation hadn’t been on their mind, but they started considering the option more seriously.
It would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
Unless we coordinate with USi.
Which would defeat the purpose.
Plus, it could be an evil Brennan.
And if it is a good Brennan, wouldn’t he come to talk to us?
Not necessarily. Considering how jacked up our files from the first Marshal are, he might not even remember who we are. Not liking that thought at all, they decided to keep searching for Studebaker Hawk. They had assumed their predecessor had chosen the outpost as her rendezvous location with Officer Brennan because of its proximity to Mechanicsburg, but they started to wonder if Harvey was part of the allure. Most municipal bartenders looked fairly similar and had cheery dispositions, but he knew his regular patrons intimately and encouraged them to talk with her. Even though he still referred to them in the singular, they decided that they liked Harvey and adjusted their route so they could visit more frequently.
Every day, however, it became harder and harder for the Marshal to focus, and they started wondering how
long they could keep patrolling these podunk little towns without results. As much sympathy as they had for the hardworking folks with whom they were migrating, continually chatting with the poor souls who were forced into labor rings by a bureaucracy that didn’t care that they had to sell themselves to the likes of Morton was depressing. If being born into their roles makes them slaves, what does that say about us?
As they spent more time riding around on the Longcoat, baking in the heat of the sun, the Marshal’s conspiratorial thoughts continued to expand and mutate. The corruption goes far beyond the Board of Trustees. Like the Old Earth idiom says, follow the money. Not just to New York, offplanet. Gene banks, Big-Ed, even USi corporate. Everyone’s got something to lose. Especially when it comes to the Marshal program. We’re setting a bad example just by existing.
Both voices within her laughed simultaneously. I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Technology’s saved the planet from natural disasters countless times. Knocked the floodgates wide open.
It’s not that I’m surprised.
Oh yeah? It felt like surprise to me.
Maybe we’re thinking too broadly. Maybe we need to focus on local issues, like whatever this poacher business is down south.
You just want to see Officer Brennan again.
Pshh, so do you.
I was just kidding, it’s a valid point.
We have no authority offworld though. We need to focus on what we can do down here.
More and more often, the Marshal found themselves worrying that they were doing the bad guys, whoever they were, a favor by isolating herself out in the desert. She wanted to abandon the search for Stu, but could only come up with the same crummy alternative options—ride south to find Brennan, try to use a hardline in New York to bypass the Matron, or kill more civilians to get the attention of a higher power—and the dangers associated with those had not changed.
Especially when the sun was bright, dark thoughts revolving around the economic forces that controlled everything on Earth from afar often enveloped the Marshal’s minds, but fantasies about Officer Brennan had started to sneak their way back in. The Peacekeeper would have somehow broken free from elaborate bondage to pursue her. Valiantly, he would bring the final fight with him, and together they would rid the world of tyranny. The details were warm and vivid but also short-lived. Far too often, she would rush the fantasy to its end and find herself alone again atop the Longcoat.
Listening to the warm hum of tires against the sand and rock of the desert floor lulled her in and out of an uneven cycle of conspiracy and hope. I guess this is our life now, the Marshal said to herself one day, as her frustrations boiled over. Cruising slowly across an all too familiar dune, she muttered more quietly than the wind going by, “That’s bullshit.”
Back inside her head, she agreed hastily, The search for Stu is going nowhere. We’ve wasted too much time already. If anyone was up above us watching, they’d have done something by now. They thought about going to New York. The minute we arrived, they’d stuff us in a box and never let us out. They thought about going south to find Brennan. Unless we report to USi, that’s never going to happen, and we don’t even know if he’s worth a damn. Slamming angrily on the brakes, the Marshal yelled furiously, “The Matron and the board are working together to cover up a massive pile of bullshit!”
Punching the Longcoat’s dashboard a little too hard with her Logo, she jumped off the bike and began pacing back and forth. Inside her head, the dual-tone voice tried to calm herself down. Yes, but we need proof.
Are you kidding? The Board of Trustees have built the system to keep their hands clean! The embargo is divine. I can feel the planet’s holiness, but it has been corrupted! Sold to the highest bidders! They have no regard for Natural Order!
It’s true. And the embargo is the perfect cover. Even if she’s only the gatekeeper, the Matron is going to be our best bet at taking them all down.
No one is going to care without substantiation.
There has to be someone.
Otherwise they wouldn’t have made us.
Or maybe there’s something wrong with us—the thought hit them like a brick. Despite everything that happened at the hospital, and whatever had happened to their minds when they logged onto Air Assault, neither of them had entertained the notion that they might be anything less than perfect. It shook them to their core, and confused as to who was speaking, they trembled as one of them thought, I mean, yeah. That’s possible. But if that’s the case, it’s USi’s responsibility to fix us. Or take us out of commission. Our job is to pursue Natural Order.
With that simple admission, the Marshal felt much better. We’ve been given full discretion over our investigation. We know the difference between right and wrong. We need to do whatever makes the most sense to us. Despite their renewed self-confidence, she looked around the wide-open desert and did not know what to do. Running the fingers of the Logo through her hair, she found a solitary thread of thought and followed it.
Y’know, even if the hardline ends up being a no-go, going to a high profile city like New York would have other benefits. With all our files being such junk, finding a random fat cat with its feet still stuck in the mud could give us the fresh start we need. That’s never going to happen out here in the boonies. Crime in a megacity might be less visible, but they’ve gotta be closer to the offworld connection, right?
For the first time in a long time, the Marshal felt truly excited to be alive. Things were confusing, too, because they were starting to notice some dissonance between their two minds, but after what felt like ages of floundering in the sand, her passion for pursuing Natural Order had been restored. Climbing back onto the Longcoat, she said aloud, “Alright, let’s spend another month looking for Studebaker Hawk. Then it’s on to the Big Apple.”
Chapter Seventeen
Two Wrongs
Morton had known he was going to have Frank kill the kid at the bar as soon he started talking. It’s not that he had called him a liar exactly, but letting him live might have tarnished their reputation. It was exactly the type of violence they had both been hoping for, but the punk put up such pitifully brief resistance that neither Morton nor Frank got much satisfaction from it. In the privacy of the back office, however, before Frank had thrown him out the window, the young man claimed to have seen Brennan at the bar in Buena Vista just a few days before the crater happened, which was a pretty big deal.
Once they were back in the comfort of the train, Morton insisted that Frank double-check the records, but he clearly remembered a number of informants saying the same thing. Those had been confusing times—the Marshal was leading a full-on revolution that ended up shutting down a majority of his workshops—and Morton had assumed that all the conflicting sightings were merely subterfuge designed to conceal the activities of a crooked cop. He had even sent Frank to corroborate a few of them and he never came back with anything substantial. Before his faithful henchman reluctantly confirmed that the Peacekeeper had been spotted on multiple occasions during the weeks in question, he already knew that he had been working with a phony.
Mortified by his own willful ignorance, Morton cursed himself for having been so naive. He wanted to blame Frank because this was the sort of mistake the henchman normally would have caught, but he knew he had only himself to blame. Stuck in an endless spiral of guilt and self-pity for having accepted what he wanted to be true instead of trusting his better judgment, the rocky shores of his dreams were once again out of reach. Pacing up and down the train car, Morton recited an updated litany of self-blame, which included things like, “I’m too naive to breathe,” and “USi doesn’t pay by the hour.”
Better than anyone, Morton knew how lucky he was to have survived three encounters with the Marshal, but now all the preparations he and Frank had made for the next one seemed pointless. He kept having nightmares where he was locked inside the train. Looking out its windows he would see a frantic reflection of himself pounding on the glas
s. Then thin metal wires creeping down from the ceiling to encircle his counterpart’s limbs, but he would fail to notice the ones around him before they were both drawn up off ground and swiftly dismembered. Numerous times upon waking he had screamed, “I WAS SET UP!” Every morning, it was a battle to get out of bed, and even when it worked, he would spend most of the day in his armchair.
Like Morton, Frank had known he was going to kill the boy as soon as he spoke. He also remembered dismissing reports of multiple Brennans and couldn’t figure out how forging a Peacekeeper had been possible. Unlike his master, however, Frank blamed himself for everything. Watching the man who owned him beat himself up was torturous, so while Morton lay trapped in bed or sitting in his chair, Frank tried his hardest to figure out what in the world had happened. The logistics of creating such a convincing imitation of Brennan seemed impossible. He compiled a list of resources that would have been necessary to accomplish such a task, and there were so many USi facilities on it that he was convinced that the government had been directly involved.
Working under that assumption, Frank examined patterns within his master’s communication logs during the months leading up to the fight against the Marshal and found proof of his theory. After summarizing several hours worth of research into a concise briefing, Frank brought his findings to Morton, who was staring blankly at a wall. Clearing his throat loudly, the studious henchman said, “Sir, I have some data here that you will be interested in. Undoubtedly, you’ve been thinking about what that brat from the bar said, and you came to the same conclusion that I did. There must have been two Officer Brennans.”
Morton didn’t stir, but Frank could hear a slight change in his breathing and knew he had his master’s attention. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d say it was impossible. But I took the liberty of looking into it, sir, and I can now say with complete certainty that it had to be done in a USi facility.” He was tempted to say that it had been the Matron directly but knew that Morton had to be led to the conclusion more gently. “Between his body, mind, and the Longcoat’s access to USi channels, it’s just not possible otherwise.”
Under the Shadow of the Plateau: Frontier Forever Page 18
