Matrix Man

by William C. Dietz

  By unspoken agreement they made their leave-taking crisp and efficient, with Corvan running checks on his gear and Kim confirming that all systems were green. The single exception came just as Corvan was about to leave. At that point Kim ignored the possibility that someone might listen in and used the off-air intercom. "Take care, Rex. I want you back."

  Corvan paused in the doorway, an alien-looking figure with the skeletal form of a robo cam perched on one shoulder and a black lens where an eye should have been. The light from the corridor beyond threw Corvan's face into shadow, but his words warmed her heart and lingered long after he was gone. "I love you, Kim."

  The cruise ship was huge. Tier after tier of decks rose twenty stories up to tower over the South Atlantic, a skyscraper on a trimaran hull, an oceangoing pleasure palace turned troop ship.

  Knowing that Numalo's Immortals monitored military movements which came anywhere near their master's headquarters, the combined leadership of the WPO and the Exodus Society had fallen back on the ancient concept of a Trojan Horse and packed a cruise ship with soldiers.

  With its original complement of passengers being held incommunicado on the Cape Verde Islands, the ship could carry the combined attack force down along the west coast of Africa without attracting attention. After all, it was supposed to be there, and its cargo of rich, overfed passengers offered no threat to Leader for Life Numalo.

  Or so it would seem anyway, until the host of hastily concealed tilt-rotor aircraft rose from the ship's decks and headed inland across what had once been known as Namibia. Then an escort of WPO aerospace fighters would drop out of orbit to wipe out whatever planes the Immortals were able to launch, and destroy the surface-to-air missile sites which dotted the countryside around Numalo's stronghold.

  With that accomplished, the VTOL craft would land, discharge their troops, and lift off again. As they did, the tilt-rotor aircraft would turn to their secondary ground-support mission, and use their guns to chop up any reinforcements the Immortals might summon from the surrounding area.

  It was, Corvan reflected, a pretty good plan, and if it survived first contact with the enemy, stood a fairly good chance of working.

  As Corvan moved toward the central elevators he found himself rubbing elbows with everyone from combat-suited WPO troopers to grim-looking Exodus Society freedom fighters and the tough desert warriors of Emelda Smith-Shad, the woman chosen to replace Numalo as the leader of Unified Africa. He'd seen her shortly after boarding, a tall, willowy black woman, her eyes flashing as she spoke to an aide. She'd been around for some time, never directly challenging Numalo but close on his heels. Now she'd have her chance at power, and Corvan hoped she was up to the job. The fact that she appealed to both the WPO and the Exodus Society might mean she was a master politician or a spineless hack. Only time would tell.

  A Klaxon sounded somewhere and a bored voice read orders from a printout. "All troops, report to your staging areas. I repeat, all troops, report to your staging areas. If you don't know where you are, or don't remember which staging area to report to, pick up a blue courtesy phone and give your name, rank, and serial number." Moments later the recording started all over again, this time in Arabic.

  The elevator doors opened and spewed men and women in every direction. What the voice neglected to mention was that the main assembly time was already fifteen minutes in the past. These were the stragglers, well aware they were late, still hoping to avoid almost certain punishment.

  Corvan had a seat reserved for himself on one of the first planes out, but not being attached to any particular unit, he could take his time. Strolling out onto one of the many sun decks which circled the craft, he looked out over the huge playing field which occupied most of the stern. It was large enough for polo, American football, soccer, or any other open field game, and it was covered with rank after rank of gleaming VTOL stealth-equipped aircraft. The combined sound of their idling engines made a thunder of sound. Tidy lines of camo-clad men and women were already snaking aboard to take their places inside. All wondered the same thing. The computers estimated that at least twenty percent of them would be casualties, so given that figure, what about them? Would they live or die?

  "Impressive, isn't it?" Saxon's approach had been masked by the background sound, and he was forced to yell in order to make himself heard.

  Corvan looked down to see the eagerness etched into both sides of Saxon's face, the soft morning light somehow balancing it out, reminiscent of the young officer he'd interviewed at Vandenberg years before. "Yes, it's real impressive, but kind of sad too."

  Saxon frowned. "Sad? How's that? We're gonna kick Numalo's ass! There's nothing sad about that."

  "There is if you're part of the twenty percent," Corvan replied, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the engines. Saxon wasn't listening anyway. He was still there, looking out over the playing field, when Corvan headed down toward his plane.

  The wood-paneled halls and corridors were almost empty now, with most of the troops preparing to board their planes or already strapped in, checking their equipment one last time, praying that they would live.

  Corvan thought about Kim somewhere below, sitting inside the ship's television studio, preparing for battle. Thanks to the two-way intercom, she would ride with him, a mental hitchhiker seeing what he saw and vicariously sharing his fate.

  If Corvan were hit, she'd hear the scream through his ears, see the world stagger and fall through his eyes, and feel the darkness envelop him as he fell into the void. He knew she'd thought about it, feared that it might happen, but remained silent. Kim had a job to do and above all else she was a pro.

  A cold wind whipped across the ship's stern as Corvan crossed to midfield. White spray paint had been used to divide it into squares. As a result the field looked like a huge checkerboard. Instead of checkers each square held a delta-shaped aircraft. Up above, a few fluffy clouds hurried toward the west, and the air was as clear as the ever present pollution would allow it to be.

  As Corvan neared the low, delta-shaped aircraft he saw a WPO logo on its side along with the designation "A-7960."

  "Your name, sir?" There were no marks of rank on his WPO-issued camos, so the petite noncom didn't know if Corvan was an officer or not, but it always pays to be careful. All you gotta do is drop one "ma'am" or "sir" to wind up with your ass in a sling.

  "Corvan, Rex," the reop answered. "Authorized press. Authority code SP-4640."

  The noncom found his name on her hand comp, touched it, and saw "SP-4640" flash onto the screen.

  She grinned and Corvan noticed that she was pretty. "Go right aboard, sir. You're seated in the first-class cabin today, row three, seat B as in Baker."

  Corvan nodded. "Thanks, Sarge. Youcomin' along for the ride?"

  The noncom nodded and patted the H&K G-40 which hung at her side. "You bet, sir. Wouldn't miss it for the world. See you in the LZ."

  Corvan waved and climbed aboard. He was one of the last to do so and felt something heavy fall into his stomach as the hatch swung closed with a heavy thump and the pretty sergeant dogged it down. He was scared and, all things considered, that made a lot of sense.

  It felt strange to sit among all those soldiers empty-handed, with no heavy weapons or pack to weigh him down. By his own choice Corvan had limited himself to a 9-mm reusable handgun with three backup mags of fourteen rounds apiece. The pistol rested in a shoulder holster just under his left arm. That, plus a double-edged commando knife which hung hilt down from his combat webbing, formed his only armament. Hopefully it was all he'd need. After all, his role was that of reop, not soldier. As if to remind him of that fact, Kim's voice entered his mind.

  "Hi there, your reopship. All systems in the green."

  "Good," Corvan thought back. "We're havin' some fun now. Is everything ready?"

  "Yup. We'll go live when you're about ten minutes from the LZ. In the meantime the bird's up, Martin's on-line, and we’ve got ninety-six-point-four percent of me ne
ts holding for our feed. And oh, by the way, you were right. Saxon showed up. He's riding shotgun here in the studio. He wanted access to the radio intercom, but I told him to screw off."

  "Good," Corvan replied silently. "We've got enough problems without Saxon monitoring everything we say. How 'bout Subido?"

  "She stopped in to kiss Saxon good-bye. Very touching. All dressed up like a commando. I think she wants to nail Numalo herself. Saxon tells me she's in the first wave."

  "That's a good place for her," Corvan replied. "Maybe the Immortals will do us all a favor and cancel her ticket."

  "Maybe so," Kim said. "Hang in there. I've got some pre-tapes to set up. I'll be back in a while."

  Two horizontal panels of green lights flashed on and off in the forward bulkhead. A recording said, "All personnel, prepare for lift off," and all around Corvan, troopers checked their gear, or did their best to look bored.

  Outside, the big Pratt & Whitney engines began to scream as the pilot wound them up tight. Then the plane seemed to jump into the air, lifting off precisely sixty seconds after the ship just ahead of it so that as the aircraft gained altitude there were no other VTOLs to either side. This reduced the chance of a lateral collision and presented the sort of orderly appearance which military minds love.

  Like a long snake the planes took to the sky, gradually arranging themselves into two flights of ten. With one hundred troopers on board each plane, that made a total assault force of two thousand, one thousand more than the total membership of the Immortals, but still damned few when you considered the fact that Numalo's bodyguards weren't alone.

  The Immortals had all sorts of auxiliaries to help them, including the technicians who operated the numerous batteries of SAMs, the local police force, and a sympathetic population. It wouldn't be easy.

  Having tilted their engines forward for level flight, the planes droned in across the African coast and in toward the city of Mandela. They flew low to avoid Numalo's radar. That, plus their nonreflective designs and composite construction, would serve as their primary defense until the aerospace fighters descended from above.

  Time dragged by, and Corvan decided that the strategy must be working, since the aircraft maintained a steady course and no missiles came racing up to blow them out of the air. In fact, it got downright boring, so that his mind drifted. Kim's thought jerked him awake.

  "Rex?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You ready?"

  "Are we that close?"

  "About sixteen out."

  "Yeah, I'm ready. How 'bout you? Can you handle Saxon?"

  Her thought was grim. "I'll handle him."

  "Okay," Corvan replied silently, wishing he could be in two places at once. "The world's in for quite a shock."

  "Ain't that the truth," Kim agreed. "Give 'em hell. And one more thing ..."

  "Yeah?"

  "I love you."

  Corvan started to think something in reply, but the pilot jerked the ship to the right, popped a flare to decoy any heat-seeking missiles which might come their way, and activated the intercom. "Welcome to Africa, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks to our low altitude, low profile, and low IQs, we made it most of the way without taking any heat." The ship jinked violently left.

  "Now, however, people on the ground are taking violent exception to our presence and trying to shoot us down. Help is on the way, but until it arrives, I suggest that you sit back and enjoy the rest of our flight."

  "Fifteen from air," Kim said, and Corvan used the remaining seconds to collect his thoughts. Not only was this the most important live feed he'd ever do, it was quite possibly the last, since the chances were fairly good that the Immortals would kill him during the assault. And just in case they missed, chances were that either the WPO or the Exodus Society would pick up where they left off. Especially since Corvan was about to double-cross both organizations.

  Corvan felt the robo cam leave his shoulder as Kim ordered it into the air. The countdown ended and Corvan began. The robo cam placed him frame right with the main aisle and the rest of the aircraft's interior stretching away behind him.

  "This is Rex Corvan. Welcome to WPO aircraft A-7960. At least, those are the numbers painted on the side of this plane, but they don't tell you much about the people inside, or the assault which is about to begin.

  "A mixed force of two thousand WPO troopers, Exodus Society volunteers, and African nationals are about to attack Leader for Life Numalo's stronghold on the outskirts of Mandela, Unified Africa. Numalo's headquarters are defended by a thousand of the so-called Immortals and hundreds of auxiliary personnel."

  The robo cam moved in for a tight shot, and Corvan looked directly into its lens. "Why, you ask? Well, the answers are as fantastic as the assault itself. It's hard to say which came first: the conspiracy to take over the world or the unbridled ambition which spawned it."

  As Corvan spoke, his picture and voice were relayed to a U.S. government satellite and from there all over the world. At WPO headquarters in New York, men and women jumped to their feet, their faces pulled into expressions of outrage as Corvan departed from the approved script, shouting at their subordinates to intervene.

  In Washington, D.C., and San Francisco, enraged Exodus Society officials fought over comsets and scrambled to use their considerable power.

  Com calls raced through the nets. Orders were given, buttons were punched, but the feed remained on-air. All around the world engineers cursed and swore doing their best to dump the broadcast which had the suits so upset. But try as they might, the engineers found there was nothing they could do. Somebody named Martin was relaying Corvan's feed via three of the government's top-secret government satellites, and when they called to complain, the Pentagon seemed just as confused as they were.

  Meanwhile Saxon screamed, turned toward Kim, and jerked a handgun out from under his left arm. She'd been waiting for this moment, dreading it, and hoping that he'd react some other way. Saxon's face was a tangle of hate as he brought the gun toward her. The plastic grips felt warm and smooth as Kim pulled the gun out from under the console. She fired twice, just as Corvan had instructed her to do, aiming for the chest rather than the head. The down side to this strategy was the possibility that Saxon wore body armor underneath his clothes, but Corvan said it was worth the risk, because head shots are harder to make. And the gamble paid off because the first slug ripped right through Saxon's right lung and the second punctured his heart.

  As Saxon died, so did the interface between his brain and his boxlike wheelchair. Freed from all control, the chair's servos made a screaming noise as it raced her way. Aiming low, Kim squeezed the trigger and sent a stream of steel-jacketed slugs into the black box. It swerved, hit a bulkhead, and keeled over. The room smelled of gunpowder as she turned back to the board. Kim lit a fag and watched her monitors.

  "To understand this assault," Corvan continued, "you need to know that President Hawkins has been dead for quite some time now. Yes, you've seen him on television, but what you saw was false. What looked like the president, what sounded like the president, was actually an electronic likeness generated by a machine called the video matrix generator."

  All over the world, men, women, and children looked up from what they were doing and started to pay attention. Wasn't that Rex Corvan, the reop who had supposedly murdered someone but had an alibi? And what was this stuff about the president?

  Samuel Numalo was an island of calm in a sea of turmoil. Outside his office, combat boots pounded down the hall as the Immortals prepared to defend his headquarters. Most, if not all of them, would die. Numalo knew that, but made no effort to intervene. To surrender without a fight would never do. He and his Immortals would fight back. The cruise ship was a clever idea, but a vulnerable one, as his attackers would soon find out. Rising from his desk, Numalo made his way over to the louvered doors. Spreading them wide, he stepped out onto the veranda. A camo-clad officer moved to chase him back inside, but stopped after he saw the Leader for Life's e
xpression.

  Ignoring the men who hurried to set up a light machine gun on the veranda, Numalo looked upward. Contrails crisscrossed the blue sky where aerospace fighters patrolled, swatting his planes and missiles out of the air like flies, preparing the way for the troop transports which droned in from the west.

  Funny, deep inside he'd always known that trouble would come from the west rather than the east, as if the knowledge were printed inside his bones. It was why he'd lived there, taken his education there, and made his first aggressive move there. Maybe it was the Zulu in him, the ancient warrior who had fought the white man and won, only to live on as their slave.

  The planes made two lines, one just above the other, gaps snowing where three of their number had been hit. Three columns of black smoke marked their graves. Numalo smiled in grim satisfaction and called for his personal weapons. When the planes landed, he'd be there to meet them.

  "Yes," Corvan said as the plane's engines tilted upward and it began to descend. "It's hard to believe. But there was a witness to the president's assassination, a witness no one thought to remove, a witness whom you can choose to believe or ignore. Some of you may doubt his word because the witness is a computer—the president's computer, a sentient device named Martin that helped Hawkins with the administrative part of his job and was present when the murder occurred.

  "But regardless of your bias I suggest that you listen to what Martin has to say. And while you listen, I want you to look at some footage created by a video matrix generator in Washington, D. C, just three days ago while this assault was being prepared. The footage which shows Carla Subido, Hawkins' chief of staff, assassinating the president. Remember that this footage isn't real, but it looks real, and that's how a small group of people managed to seize control of the United States government and run it for the last two or three weeks."