The transport whizzed overhead, its red laser sensors visible underneath its belly as it passed by, but it didn’t stop.
When a minute had passed, Aldous got up, brushing the snow off of his clothes and exposed skin, and tuned back into Sanha’s mind’s eye.
The last post-human had been executed, and the super soldier was now standing in front of Sanha once again, gazing down at his prey. “Those implants of yours are mighty powerful,” he began as he returned his rifle to his backpack and retrieved the smaller, sleeker disruptor device. “We can’t just keep shooting the damned thing over and over,” he said as he shot Sanha in the lower abdomen, the energy dissipating in his body.
Sanha grunted slightly, but the disruptor wasn’t painful as much as it was uncomfortable, causing the MTF implant to shimmer slightly, resulting in a numbing of the legs, not unlike the experience of people with sciatica. “I mean, I could just assign a guy to follow you around and shoot you every two minutes, but that hardly seems practical. Lucky for you,” he said, grinning as he replaced his disruptor, “there’s an alternative.”
The super soldier held up his clawed, mechanical hand, and the contraption suddenly made an electric whir as it began to spin like a drill, the fingers merging together to form a fine tip. With his free hand, the super soldier grasped Sanha by the back of the neck and forced him down onto his stomach. He clamped down on him with his right leg, placing it on the back of Sanha’s thigh, locking Sanha into position as the drill hovered above Sanha’s lower back.
Aldous had never heard such screaming in his life. It was a shrill pitch that could only be called forth by the worst agony—unimaginable agony.
“No! No,” Aldous whispered.
After a torturously long minute, the screaming stopped, followed only by the sound of Sanha’s wheezing. He shut his eyes several times, preventing Aldous from seeing what was happening. It wasn’t hard to guess, however.
“It’s really quite a beautiful thing,” the super soldier commented in the blackness.
Sanha’s eyes suddenly flashed open, the super soldier having grabbed him by the scruff of the neck once again and pulled him up with one arm, holding the blood-covered MTF generator in the other, displaying it for him.
“Who would’ve thought something so small would cause so much trouble?” He released Sanha and let him fall back to the concrete.
Sanha closed his eyes again, opening them intermittently for brief flashes before they rolled back into his head.
“Stop your whining,” the super soldier demanded. “Those little nanobots of yours will fix any incidental spinal damage I might have caused. You’ll be right as rain in an hour—and a lot closer to being human again.” His lip curled into a sneer. “You’re welcome.”
With his lips quivering from the horror, Aldous held his head in his hands as he considered his options. The logical thing to do was to keep running, but he hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to leave his companions. He hadn’t accounted for the emotional element once again—he hadn’t accounted for the horror.
After a few moments, he managed to force his cement legs to resume moving—a slow trot at first, but as he considered the consequences of failure, he began to run hard, nearly sprinting away through the snow.
Suddenly, the super soldier cocked his head to the side, apparently listening to a communiqué. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Holy...they are tough buggers, aren’t they? What’s the name of the VIP?”
Aldous suddenly froze once again. No. It can’t be.
“Professor Samantha Gibson,” Colonel Paine reacted, repeating the name that had been related to him, his smile suddenly brimming widely. “Well, I’ll be damned. Small world, ain’t it?”
16
“Heaven bless you, Father, I can’t protect you!” the master-at-arms shouted. “Bullets have no effect.”
The priest nodded, understanding the gravity of the evil he faced. He had pocketed a small bottle of holy water when he’d clumsily exited his room, pulled along by the steward that the master-at-arms had sent to fetch him. As he gazed up at the limp body that floated only inches above the ground in the center of the smoking room, he wished he’d brought more—a lot more.
“Glorious Prince of Heaven’s armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle against the principalities and powers, against the rulers of darkness, against the wicked spirits in the high places.” He tossed the first salvo of holy water at the floating apparition.
It seemed to have no effect.
“Keep going,” the master-at-arms encouraged.
“Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.” The priest tossed the second salvo of holy water toward the floating demon.
Again, there appeared to be no effect.
The holy man gritted his teeth, determined, and began to speak more forcefully.
“And do Thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls!” He tossed the third salvo of holy water.
To the master-at-arms’s and the priest’s surprise, this time there appeared to be some small effect. The demon twitched slightly—an audible snap of energy sparking behind it.
“Holy Mother—I think it’s working!”
At that moment, the intrepid journalist William Stead arrived upon the scene, dressed only in his house coat and pajamas, as he’d retired to bed nearly two hours earlier. The sleep in his eyes vanished instantly when he saw the spectacle in the smoking room. This would be the defining scoop of his life. Without taking his eyes off of the floating figure and the aura of green energy that surrounded it, he reached with his right arm and grasped the collar of the photographer he’d brought with him to document the Titanic’s maiden voyage. “Get this. For the love of God, you better get this!”
The young photographer, his hands shaking violently from the fright, began to set up the tripod for his Kodak camera.
“It’ll be over before you get that set up, man! Just take the shot!” Stead shouted.
The priest continued his prayer. “In the name of the Father,” he thundered, splashing more of the holy water onto the floating figure. “...and the Son!” He threw more holy water. “And the Holy Spirit!”
A loud and audible pop of electricity suddenly jolted Craig back to consciousness just as the young photographer snapped his Kodak, capturing the moment of Craig’s reawakening.
What the hell was that?” Craig asked.
“Am I speaking to the demon?” asked the priest.
“That was me, Craig,” the A.I. replied. “I’m sorry, but I had to give you a shock. I can’t let you sleep or you will die.”
“Who the hell are these people?”
“I still haven’t established a connection to your optics,” the A.I. replied.
“We’re Christ’s followers, demon!” the priest shouted. “We command you to leave! The power of Christ compels you!”
“Oh boy,” Craig sighed. “I’ve attracted a crowd.”
“That is not good, Craig. We are not supposed to interfere with this timeline.”
“Not interfere? What are you talking about? We’re supposed to just let this ship sink?”
“Sink?” the master-at-arms repeated. He turned to the priest. “Is this—thing—threatening the ship, Father?”
“I think the man—the possessed man—is fighting against the demon that resides inside him,” the priest replied.
“More pictures,” Stead said to his photographer. “As many as you can get.”
“He’s keeping pretty still, sir,” the photographer whispered. “These should turn out quite well.”
“If they do, you’ll be the most famous photographer in the world, my boy.”
“There’s definitely more than one entity inhabiting that body,” the priest observed, nearly breathless.
“What should we do?” asked the master-at-arm
s.
“I think we need to let the man try to get control of his body. Be on the ready.”
“Craig,” the A.I. began, in a neutral, informative tone, “I can tell you that 1,503 passengers and crew die after Titanic hits an iceberg. It is exceedingly likely that these witnesses will all die in the sinking and that those photographs will be lost.”
“So?”
“So, you still have a chance to minimize your impact on this timeline. We can still retreat and allow this timeline to continue unaffected.”
“Unaffected? That’s a hell of an insidious euphemism. What you’re talking about is letting all of these people die—hundreds of men, women, and children—when we could prevent it.”
The witnesses were jointly disturbed by Craig’s second reference to their ultimate demise. It would have been easy to dismiss such ramblings, given that the ship had been deemed unsinkable, but coming from a man who was so obviously spiritually afflicted, the prophecy had a palpable direness to it that the men could not ignore.
The master-at-arms turned to one of the stewards. “I think it’s time the Captain learned about this.”
“Craig, you haven’t fully considered the consequences of interfering in an alternate timeline,” the A.I. urgently began to explain.
“Spare me,” Craig said, cutting off the voice in his head. “There are thousands of people onboard and their lives are no less valuable than yours or mine. I’m going to save this ship whether you like it or not.”
17
WAKING UP, in this instance, was akin to resurrection. Samantha’s eyes opened, but the room in which she found herself was as black as the inside of a coffin. Her first instinct was to ignite a pulse of green energy on her fingertips to illuminate the area, but it was to no avail. She opened her mind’s eye, glad it was still functioning at least. A few clicks later, she had selected the night vision setting, and the room suddenly appeared before her, green and black.
She was sitting upright on a concrete floor. The room was nearly perfectly square, only a handful of meters by a handful of meters. Her hands were covered in some sort of liquid—it appeared black in the fluorescent green hue night vision. She rubbed her thumb and index finger together before darting out her tongue to taste it.
Blood.
What the hell is going on here? she thought. She flipped through to a search screen on her mind’s eye, searching for anyone else nearby. A signal was quickly approaching her position: Sanha.
The door to the room began to open, and she closed her eyes to shield them from the bright light as she switched back to normal vision. When she reopened her eyes, Sanha was in the doorway, but he wasn’t walking. A Purist super soldier held him by the back of his neck, suspending him above the floor with only one of his cybernetic prosthetic arms. The soldier tossed Sanha roughly to the ground. Pale and covered in blood, Sanha crawled pathetically to the far wall and propped himself up against it before looking up at Samantha. “Hi, Sam.”
Samantha looked up at the super soldier. He was leaning casually against the door frame as he lit an already half-smoked cigar. His helmet was removed, revealing his head of thick salt-and-pepper hair. Samantha’s lips curled downward with disgust as she regarded the crosshatch of stretch marks that surrounded the soldier’s cybernetic eyes.
“You don’t know me,” the soldier began, “but I know you.” He stepped into the room and grinned as he shook his head. “Or at least I knew your former husband, Doc Emilson.”
Samantha nearly gasped at the mention of Craig—what did this man know? Did he know Craig was back? How could he?
“I was his commanding officer fourteen years ago when he gave his life for his country—and all of humanity. Maybe he mentioned me?”
“Colonel Paine?”
Paine smiled. “That’s right. That’s right. Good memory.” He scratched his head with his clawed fingers and then placed his mechanical hand on the back of his neck. “He gave his life. He gave his life.” He looked toward the door as he spoke, as though he were conjuring the image of Craig’s sacrifice in his imagination. He appeared genuinely moved. “Good solider. The best. Better than me.”
His mouth shifted, forming a tight grimace as he turned to Samantha, the golden irises of his cybernetic eyes burning into her. “And here you are, pissing on his memory, exchanging wedding vows with the devil himself.” He shook his head, true disgust in his voice as he spoke. “Lady, I don’t have one damn ounce of sympathy for you.”
“Samantha? Sam, it’s me,” Aldous suddenly said over her mind’s eye. “Don’t react. Don’t let him know you’re in contact with me.”
Samantha’s eyes were wild with astonishment.
“I thought you’d been killed, my love,” Aldous continued. “I’d never have left if I would’ve known that you were still alive. It’s bordering on miraculous.”
Aldous had escaped? The Purists had overwhelmed the complex? What did they want with her?
“You know,” Paine continued in his gravely voice, “I warned him about you. The day he gave his life to destroy all A.I. and save the species—I warned him. Goddamn it, lady. Your husband was a hero. How could you betray him like this?”
“Don’t listen to him, Sam,” Aldous cautioned. He’d stolen a Jeep and was now speeding through the mountain pass, away from Mount Andromeda and toward the nearest city. “That man is a killer. He executed more than a dozen people without a second thought. Listen to me, Sam. You have to get away. Whatever you do, you have to get away. He’s going to kill you if you don’t.”
She couldn’t reply, but her throat was too knotted with fear to speak anyway. She looked toward the open door. Why weren’t her powers working? If she could just fly—
Paine watched her eye line and grinned. “Heh. Want out?”
She looked up into his cold, lifeless eyes.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the small, spherical MTF generator that had previously been inside her. He tossed it to her, but it slipped out of her hand, the surface of the generator still wet with blood and tissue, and rolled to the corner of the room. Paine laughed. “While you were recovering, I had to do a little impromptu surgery,” he said as he held the sharp fingers of his hand up like pincers to punctuate the point. “I think you’ve taken your last flight.”
18
“What time is it?” Craig asked the priest.
Befuddled, the priest looked to the master-at-arms, who pulled out his pocket watch.
“11:36 p.m.,” he replied.
“What time does the ship go down?” Craig asked the A.I.
“Go down?” the priest replied, pale and terror-stricken.
“It strikes the iceberg at 11:40 p.m., Craig,” replied the A.I.
“What?” Craig grunted in frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me? Jesus! Let’s go!”
“Craig,” the A.I. calmly began in protest, “I cannot help you interfere in this timeline. It would be highly unethical.”
“Unethical? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Letting more than 1,000 people die is ethical, then?”
“If you interfere here, Craig, you will open a Pandora’s box the likes of which you do not comprehend—”
“Just spare me, okay?” Craig shouted in return. “This is simple. We have the power to act, to stop a tragedy, so we act. Got it?”
“I cannot participate—”
“Fine, but don’t get in my way.”
The A.I. fell silent, but Craig remained floating in a stationary position just above the floor, still at the mercy of the A.I.
“Are you going to let me go?” Craig asked.
“I-I’m not sure I could stop you if I tried,” the master-at-arms uttered in response.
“I’m not talking to you,” Craig said. He pointed to his temple. “I’m talking to the computer in my head.”
“What the devil?” the master-at-arms reacted in dismay.
“Computer?” William Stead suddenly spoke, his head cocking as he shook a memory
loose—one buried deep. “You mean, like a difference engine?”
Craig’s eyebrows knitted quizzically.
“A machine that computes?” Stead elaborated.
“Yes,” Craig answered, “a machine that computes.”
After a short moment of stunned silence, Stead finally guffawed. “Damn it, man, that’s as daft a notion as I’ve ever heard. A difference engine is nearly ten feet tall and weighs a ton.”
“It’s not daft,” Craig replied. “Remember this: when it comes to computers, the technology always gets a lot smaller and a lot more powerful—and in a hurry. And I’ll prove it to you, if the machine in my head will release me.”
“He’s out of his mind,” Stead whispered to the master-at-arms. “If he’s as powerful as you say, we’ve all had it.”
“You hear that?” Craig asked, speaking to the A.I. “Do I no longer have the right to free will? Can I not make choices anymore because you’ve decided to make them for me? Are you going to take that right?”
Another moment of silence passed. Then, suddenly, Craig lowered to the ground and his green aura dissipated.
“Thank you,” Craig said as he walked past the master-at-arms. “Tell the captain he’s about to hit an iceberg and this ‘unsinkable’ ship’s going to go down. If he turns now, he’ll give himself a chance.”
“That’s lunacy!” the master-at-arms fired back. “It’ll take a hell of a lot more than an iceberg to sink this ship!”
Craig shook his head. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Excuse me while I save your ass.” He pushed his way out of the room, then opened the doors to the outside deck. The night was moonless and dark, and the ocean was so calm that it appeared smooth, like a mirror. “I’ve never seen the ocean so calm,” Craig commented as he gripped the railing, preparing to launch himself over and into flight. “I can actually see the individual reflections of stars on its surface. It’s almost like glass.”
Post-Human Trilogy Page 11
