by Terry Mixon
It is my name.
“I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”
Only the strong surface thoughts. It’s almost as though you’re talking to yourself. That I can hear. The tactical doctrine of the marine armor is to make it as intimidating as possible. Faceless killing machines project the right kind of image. With Raider armor, we don’t want people to see us until it’s too late, and there are circumstances where a face is useful. Also, we have our own ways of intimidating people.
“Such as?” She began running through a systems diagnostic of the armor while she conversed with the ghost in her head. Everything was green.
The projectors that put your face on the helmet can put other things there, too. Grinning skulls and demonic faces are particular favorites. Were favorites.
His mental voice sounded so sad that she felt a chill go down her spine. It would be very, very easy to think of the program as a real person with actual emotions.
“I’ll keep that in mind going forward. I hope this doesn’t seem ungrateful, but you’re sounding more like a person than you did the last time. That’s…well, creepy.”
I’ve integrated all the data files and raw memory maps. I feel like more of a person than I did before. It’s more than a bit unsettling.
“Memory maps?”
That’s what I called them when I made backups of my vids and files during the rebellion. I told my implants to make direct copies of my memories. Our doctor didn’t think they would even be readable, much less useful if I died, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. I think I might have been wrong.
“How so?”
Now I really know that I’m dead. It’s as though I’m a ghost in your implants, watching things take place that I can’t control. I feel like a ghost.
That made things much more complicated. What had she created? When she’d told Invincible to update the program’s ability to integrate data files, she might have done way more than she’d bargained for. She might have created a new kind of AI.
She was going to have to do a lot more testing of what this being was, but now was not the time. Even though the conversation had only taken a minute, the others were waiting for her to talk with them.
“Is there anything else that you need to tell me before I deal with my other problems?”
Just one thing. The search of my recordings is complete. I didn’t record myself accessing the ship’s computer on Persephone.
“Dammit. I really need that code. No offense, but I’d like to have more than you to tell me about my implants, and that ship is a treasure trove that we can’t use.”
I didn’t say I couldn’t provide the code. As I incorporated my memory maps, I remembered things. In this case, I found the code about an hour ago. I’ll gladly share it with you, Kelsey.
“Why didn’t you say so then?”
You were a little busy confronting these men. And you told me to keep quiet.
That last sounded a tad smug. “I can see I’m going to have my hands full with you. Fine. Thank you. Do those memories address how you died or what happened to Persephone?”
Unfortunately, no. Perhaps those things will be made clear when you assume command.
* * * * *
Away from the marble-paneled lobby, the broadcast station was more utilitarian. Bland white walls, bright lights, and somewhat worn carpeting in commercial tan.
It was also busier. Hordes of people moved quickly down the halls and into various rooms stuffed full of equipment Olivia couldn’t identify. All chattering away in what sounded like a foreign language. One made up of technical phrases and acronyms that meant nothing to her.
The receptionist led the way through the crowd and up to a door with a security lock. It opened with a card she produced. “This corridor takes you directly to the main studio control booth.”
“Thank you. I won’t forget your help. If your boss fires you, I’ll find you a place on my staff that will more than make up for the loss.”
The woman snorted. “If you’re serious, I’ll submit my resignation today. Leaving this place is no loss.”
“You’re hired. Come with us.”
Olivia led the way into a darkened control room at the end of the short hall. Screens covered the walls, some showing a news desk where a talking head was jabbering on about something. Probably Olivia’s supposed death, based on the burning wreckage in the vid behind him. Other screens showed an empty seat in what looked like Abigail’s office.
It wouldn’t be empty much longer, based on the countdown clock beside it. Five minutes to go.
A man without a jacket, his sleeves rolled up and his face perspiring heavily, gawked at them and shot to his feet. “What the hell are you people doing in here? Get out! We go live in four.”
“Yes, you will,” Olivia said. “Just not with the broadcast you expect. Listen up, people. What you’re reporting is a lie. I’m Olivia West and I’m very much alive. Abigail King is staging a coup and you’re going to help me stop her.”
“Bullshit! I don’t know you. Master Calder said—”
George raised his stunner and took the man down. “Who’s the associate producer?”
No one spoke, but everyone looked at a younger man with a monumentally ugly tie. George stalked over and pulled him to his feet. “Do you recognize Coordinator West?”
Motion on one of the screens got Olivia’s attention. Abigail was sitting down behind her desk. The woman’s smug expression of anticipation infuriated her. They had three minutes.
“I’m going down to the set,” she said. “Make certain they don’t cut to Abigail.”
The receptionist—Olivia really needed to learn the woman’s name—led her to a door on the other side of the room. Several of the resistance members followed. A short set of stairs led down to another door and into the studio.
There were a lot more people running equipment than she’d expected. Dozens of men and women focused on their tasks, all surrounding a brightly lit desk with the talking head. He sounded like he was preparing to cut over to Abigail.
Olivia had to hand it to him. The man looked only mildly alarmed as she brushed past the cameras and stepped close to the set.
“Cut to commercial,” she said softly from just outside the camera range.
The man blinked once and turned up the brightness of his smile. He picked right back up with his calm, measured monologue, barely glancing at Olivia.
“As I mentioned earlier, Deputy Coordinator King is about to make a statement from her office on the terrible events that took place earlier today. A highly placed source in the administration has informed this reporter that some very shocking allegations will be revealed in just a few minutes.
“You’ll want to hear them first right here on Channel 7 News. Let’s break for a short commercial and we’ll be right back.”
Someone off the set shouted. “Live in fifty-five seconds.”
The anchor stood and pulled Olivia onto the set. “Sit right here beside me, Coordinator. My name is Jackson Zapata. Just call me Jackson. I’ll make the assumption that the rumors of your death are grossly exaggerated.”
“You could say that. There’s a coup under way.”
That seemed to make him very happy. She supposed trouble was what folks like him thrived on. “Then you’d best say so up front. The security forces might try to shut us down, so lead with the meat of the story.”
A woman with a tray of makeup rushed up to Olivia. “Let me put this on your cheeks or you’re going to look like a corpse.”
“I think that’s what someone had in mind,” Olivia said with a hint of gallows humor.
Another woman—a producer of some kind—whipped off her blouse without any qualms about showing her undergarments to God and everyone. “You can’t go on air in that! Arms up!”
“We’ll come back with the camera on me,” the anchor said. “I’ll make a brief introduction so the audience is prepped. You’ll know when to start speaking. Just look into the camer
a and pretend it’s a person.”
In an astonishingly brief period of time, they had her face made up and her top changed. The producer was brushing Olivia’s hair when someone off set started counting down.
“Live in three…two…” the man beside the camera held up a single finger as the producer dove behind the desk.
“Welcome back to Channel Seven,” the anchor said gravely. “It’s my great pleasure to introduce a very unexpected, yet most welcome, special guest in studio, Coordinator Olivia West. Coordinator, I’m sure that our viewers are all greatly relieved to see you alive and well. Please tell us what’s really going on.”
Olivia smiled into the camera like a wolf, imagining that she was staring right at Abigail. “Thank you, Jackson. And an even bigger thanks to Lord Edward Calder for providing this forum for me.”
She took a deep breath and launched into her explanation. “People of Harrison’s World, it saddens me to inform you that Abigail King, formerly Deputy Coordinator of our world, is attempting to stage a coup. The vid you’ve all seen is a lie. That pinnace didn’t belong to Fleet, but to rebels intent on overthrowing the rightful rule of law. Perhaps even the Imperial lords themselves.”
That last was untrue, but the rules of politics were crystal clear. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counter-accusations. Let Abigail be the one on the defensive.
“Now, let me explain very quickly what really happened. We don’t have long before the rebels kill this transmission, so let’s make our time together count.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sean came limping into the safe house just as the big news broadcast came on. The marines leapt into action, getting his broken arm set and putting some ice on his knee. The medic thought it was only a bad bruise.
The coordinator only got about ten minutes into her speech before the channel went off the air with a nondescript “technical difficulties” banner. For some reason, he didn’t think many people were going to believe that. In the end, it hardly mattered. She’d said more than enough to get people thinking.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I expected our escape to be the big news of the day, but with all this going on, the security forces won’t even be looking for us.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, sir,” the medic said as he finished wrapping Sean’s knee. “Someone is going to care about what we’re doing. Maybe only the capital security forces, but still.”
“This kind of thing spawns riots. The people that feel suppressed in society will be taking the opportunity to even the score. Which opens us up to random danger, but clouds our activities from view. We need to get some eyes on the target building. I don’t want our little songbird to escape before we can find out what he knows.”
The medic didn’t look pleased. “You really need to stay off that knee, sir. If you abuse it, we’ll be carrying you.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?” he joked.
The nonplussed marine only sighed.
“I’ve had enough excitement to last a lifetime, Sergeant. I don’t need to lead the charge to secure the prisoner. I’ll be happy to wait with the getaway driver. But, it’s getting dark and the crowds won’t wait long to begin roaming the streets.”
He outlined the general plan for them. They had three vehicles, including a grav van. That was for securing any prisoners. The other two air cars would deliver troops onto the roof where the guards had brought Sean into the building. Hopefully, the camp commander would be in the same suite of offices he’d occupied earlier. If not, perhaps someone there would know something worthwhile. That was the only place he knew to look for answers.
They mounted up and headed into the city at a sedate pace. His predictions proved accurate. Once they made it into the business district, there were small groups of people roving around and a few agitators were already whipping them into a frenzy. It wouldn’t be long before they started setting fires and looting.
The security forces were getting ready. He saw a couple of checkpoints—complete with officers in riot gear—going up and came up with a new scouting plan. They moved all the weapons out of the first air car and relocated all but two of the men from it to the van. It led the way.
This approach proved wise when it ran into a surprise checkpoint. The rest of them took a side street and avoided some very uncomfortable questions. The security forces gave his men a hard time, but let them through when the mob put in an appearance up the street.
They all made it to the target building without any further problems. A convenience store provided a place to park while they swapped out people and weapons. The owners were securing sheets of hard plastic across the windows, no doubt anticipating looting.
The occupants of the building had the target floor brightly lit, so Sean expected someone to be there. Probably trying to figure out where all the prisoners had disappeared to.
He decided to keep the van in the parking lot after having a word with the suspicious owner of the shop. Some local currency got them drinks and prepackaged food in case they couldn’t get back to the house. A shotgun and a few boxes of ammo made the man a friend for life.
Once everything was in readiness, the two air cars went up to the roof. Without communications—other than local coms—he couldn’t follow along with the raid. He was just glad none of the windows blew out in an explosion. That would draw the security forces, even with riots taking place.
His com signaled. “Yes?”
“We have takeout. You want to come to the door?”
“Be right there.” He hung up and slapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go.”
The van took off and landed on the roof. His team hustled three men and a woman out to meet them. They’d rigged up some makeshift restraints ahead of time, so these folks were not a serious threat. The two men in back with Sean could keep them under control.
The marines dumped them into the van and took off for their air cars. This time they’d be taking more of a chance getting back to the house. The lead air car would have a full load of passengers, though no weapons.
Sean smiled when he saw the bastard who’d given him so much trouble. “Well, well. Things are looking up. I’m actually pleased to see you.”
“You can go screw yourself,” the man snarled.
“While that might be entertaining, I’d rather get a little information from you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I’m hoping you go for hard, honestly.”
The man spit at Sean, but missed.
Sean smashed his good fist into the man’s face. It hurt, but not as bad as his broken arm. Blood streamed from the man’s nose as he bellowed in pain.
“I’m an officer,” Sean said as he shook his hand, “but I’m not inclined to be a gentleman. Admiral Mertz would disapprove of my methods, I suspect, but I find they hold a particular charm. You took a hundred of my people. You can tell me where they are or I’ll cheerfully break you in half. If I get tired, one of these hulking young marines can spell me. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather tell me what I want to know?”
The prisoner’s answer was profane and to the point.
“This is going to be a long night,” he told the driver. “I’m glad we picked up snacks. We’re going to need the energy.”
* * * * *
Olivia wasn’t surprised when the power went out only ten minutes into her address. Honestly, she’d expected only half that time. She’d already made her final plea for the people to spread the word and resist the unlawful regime. If Abigail hadn’t cut her off, Olivia would’ve been in the awkward position of having to pass things back to the anchorman. This way was much more dramatic.
Emergency lights came on all over the studio when the overheads went out. Jackson Zapata stood. “Well, that’s it for tonight, Coordinator. We need to get you out of the building before the security forces close in. I hope you have a speedy ride waiting for you.”
“I have that in spades. Thank you for making this as straightfo
rward as possible.”
He smiled and extended his hand. “It was an honor and a pleasure. Not to mention a huge boost for the station’s ratings, I’m sure. Maybe I should ask Lord Calder for a raise.”
“I’d hold off on that for a while, if I were you. In fact, you might want to come with us.”
He smiled slowly. “That’s a wonderful idea and I’ll gratefully accept your generous offer. We could do a documentary style show of your fight against the tyrant and usurper. Charlotte! Get a camera crew ready to go! We’re following the coordinator!”
The woman in the bra started shouting for people by name and ordering them to do things. Olivia decided that if the apocalypse ever came, she wanted that woman organizing the last stand against the zombies.
“What’s the best way to get out of here?” she asked as she peeled out of the woman’s blouse. She’d stand out less in the one she’d worn earlier. “I have men and vehicles outside.”
“The tunnels,” he said promptly, taking his producer’s blouse from Olivia and tossing it to her as she trotted by. “They crisscross under the district. One leads to our satellite office a few blocks away. Your people can meet us there and not risk running into security forces.”
Olivia slipped her blouse on and buttoned it quickly. The door leading to the control room opened and her people came out at a run. One of them hurried up to her.
“The security feed is on backup power. There’s no sign of trouble yet, but we need to get you out of here.”
“I’m already working on that. What’s the address for this other office?” she asked Zapata.
He gave it to her man. “Have them go into the parking garage, top level. The employee code is 1234.”
“You know that isn’t secure,” her man said, obviously offended by the broadcast company’s lapse in security consciousness.
“Take it up with management,” Zapata said. “Coordinator, we can head down to the tunnel through the stairwell behind the studio. Someone will tell the security forces about it, I’m sure, but they won’t have time to block you from leaving or follow you, for that matter. Especially if they think you went somewhere else.”
