The Cyborg Chronicles (The Future Chronicles)

by Peralta, Samuel

  She scrolled through the pad, pretending to look for a particular app, giving him a moment to reconsider. Tamele stayed buttoned up while her finger hovered, but she caught sight of a slight tremor in the corner of his jaw.

  “Now, let’s see how good your security is.”

  She tapped on the icon, initializing a mnemonic assault cascade of amplifying intensity. His brow furrowed in pain as he slammed his palms against either side of his skull, his groans slowly progressing to screams. The cascade was designed to root out, attack, and destroy any security enhancements that protected his cerebral mesh from forced intrusion. The strong-arm hack triggered a number of mem mines, lighting up the pain receptors in his brain while severing the biomechanic weaves lacing his cerebrum. After ten minutes, his breathing had grown ragged, his body soaked in sweat, and his mind was entirely open to her.

  His countermeasures were a joke, but she realized he had little need for sophistication. Or rather, his employers had little need for hardware-based security. The data he carried around in his mind was of little consequence with so much of South Africa’s judicial system bought and paid for. Tamele might one day wind up in prison, maybe even soon, but those above him lived far above the reach of the law, so cushioned in money were they. Judges and prosecutors were bought in blood, the country’s legal measures as dead as Okey.

  A wave of neural drones infiltrated Tamele’s limbic system, harvesting local memory roots and capturing stored data, offloading digital copies of his memories to her pad. She spent forty minutes brute force hacking his personal history and downloading everything. By the time she finished, his eyes were screwed tightly shut and tears streamed down his face.

  He’d have a migraine for days, but unlike her partner, and unlike Gerhardt and the rhinos killed in his wake, he’d live. She couldn’t help but think that was a shame.

  * * *

  As Akagi dived into Tamele’s mnemonic recordings, she refused to feel sorry for him. He had made his choices.

  His family, though... her heart went out to them. Guerilla forces had raided the village Tamele called home and slaughtered people in the streets. His mother had been caught in the gunfire, sprinting to safety too slowly. Tamele had watched his mother brought down in a hail of automatic weapons fire, and Akagi felt the wave of anguish wash through her as the DRMR recording fed her brain the awful, replicated chemical and sensory reactions. She felt what Tamele had felt, saw what he had seen.

  Hundreds of memories pierced her mind, and she watched as her (his) sister, Zyeredzi, grew thinner over the months that followed, her body emaciated from the lack of resources, the loss of income and security her mother had provided them. The siblings lived in a very small dwelling, with only a single bed to share. Akagi felt the frail, skeletal form in her arms as she (he) held her.

  Tamele needed to work. He needed money. They needed food. His first kill had been difficult. Although there had been several hunters in his village, before the guerilla forces had attacked and captured or killed them, he had not been one of them. Guilt leaked through the DRMR feed as Tamele cut through the wire fences surrounding Kruger Park, invading the land with a trio of other men, a gun — surprisingly heavy — strapped across his chest. Thoughts of Zyeredzi and the loud groans her stomach made in the middle of the night. Hoping for meat, something, anything, to keep them alive for one more day.

  Akagi skipped over the rest. She didn’t need to see the savagery of his kill. She’d seen enough of that over the years, the results of these butchers and their damnable choices.

  Aggravated, she disconnected from the DRMR and set up an automated search protocol, scrubbing the mems with a forensic app. This would yield names she could research, locations, data, all without having to comb through the mems manually. Something she should have done in the first place.

  Never should have played the damn things, she chided herself. She wanted so badly to keep on loathing Tamele, but found herself frustrated instead, angry at only herself.

  She fell to the ground, letting her open palms hit the flat wooden floor, and began cycling through a routine of push-ups and crunches, letting the building sweat ease her troubled mind while she attended to keeping what was left of her flesh, blood, and muscle healthy.

  Her face burned beneath the gauze padding, the skin itchy from the adhesive keeping her wounds closed.

  After an hour, a notification popped up in the corner of her vision. The forensic work-up was finished. She sat on the floor, her slick back sticking to the messy bedsheets that hung off the mattress, and reviewed the results.

  There were a number of names that she was able to research, cross reference, and eliminate. Most of them poachers. Good data, but not what she was looking for.

  Tamele was too much the low man on the totem pole, but that did not make him invaluable. He had been involved, observant. He had heard things, seen people, come in contact with them, if only for the briefest of moments and perhaps without deliberation. But there was information to harvest and examine.

  It took several hours to pore through the data and research the findings. In the end, it was time well spent.

  Slowly, she stood and sat at the small table attached to the far wall. She broke down her rifle for cleaning. Once that was finished and reassembled, she methodically reloaded the magazines with smart ammo, sliding the bullets in one at a time.

  She worked the sling over her head so that the rifle hung across her body.

  Her room held no valuables, no personal belongings. She lived a Spartan existence at the park, most of her time spent outdoors and in the field. When she closed the door behind her, she knew she would not be returning to Skukuza.

  Her mission was to protect the animals, to preserve all that remained. Tamele’s memories had made it clear that this was not a mission that could be done within the park, so far removed from the real culprits.

  She realized that it was time for her to return to the world, to walk among mankind once more. Her war could not be fought from within the reservation, not if it were to be won.

  She had a name. Karl Jubber. That name had given her a location. That location would be the new front in her war.

  Akagi found her little-used car in the lot outside the base and drove. Kruger National Park was soon lost in the distance, and she disconnected herself from their data feeds for now.

  A new kill count had begun.

  * * *

  Akagi spent much of the following week hidden in the woods separating a secluded Cape Town mansion from civilization. A chameleonwear suit kept her blended with the surroundings, while the smart rifle was disguised in a similar wrapping.

  She had used her time collecting as much information on Karl Jubber as possible. When she caught sight of him for the first time, her dislike for the man was instantaneous.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, close-cropped black hair. Always wearing board shorts and a designer t-shirt one size too small. The short sleeves pulled taut around his biceps, showing off the South African Special Forces tattoo of a Commando knife within a laurel wreath. He carried himself with an ostentatious sense of self-importance, surrounded by a bevy of personal guardians. Every night he made his way into the heart of Cape Town, secreted away in one of four rugged and heavily modified SUVs to take part in the city’s night life. He often returned home with a score of women to continue the after-hours party. His social media accounts were littered with his idiot mems and drunken selfies as he sat among his naked, drugged-out conquests, always with the same wry smirk.

  The photos and mnemonic recordings were utterly distasteful, but they had given her insight about the Clifton mansion’s layout. The home was at least as large as Jubber’s ego, but far more sedate. The interior was Spartan and white, with plenty of windows. The view across Clifton 3rd Beach and the Atlantic Ocean beyond was to die for. Jubber’s heavily-guarded palace was a stone’s throw from the water, but given the heavy foot traffic along the shores and the wide-open expanse of beachfront, she had qu
ickly ruled that out as a point of ingress. She felt much more comfortable in the thick profusion of trees and foliage that hid the villa from Victoria Road and its neighbors.

  There were a handful of guards watching the gated access road, and another handful that acted as Jubber’s personal protection detail. Roving security toured the house, and she had followed their route from the thick greenery on either side of the home, watching as they stood guard on the oceanfront deck. Some of the men had dogs, which she refused to kill.

  Much like the rangers, Jubber’s security relied on visible deterrence and a strong showing of force. Jubber never seemed uneasy or put out by the measure, and never appeared threatened. He had a strong show of force, and often spent much of his days on the deck overlooking the beach or sitting in the infinity pool, watching the tourists mill about below. More often than not, he looked like little more than a smug king soaking in his own opulence, his minor kingdom built on blood and murder.

  Akagi was going to take all of that way from him, forever.

  She was not worried by the score of security, and watching their movements and learning their routines only bolstered her confidence. The chameleonwear helped, as did the smart ammunition in her rifle. She followed them on foot, observed from the trees, and monitored their movements through a sourced hacker satellite rented through a dummy account she had set up ages ago during her time in Syria to buy information. She tracked the weather reports and bided her time, popping hydrating nutritional candies, waiting.

  Mid-afternoon on the sixth day of surveillance, the rain came, and she smiled. She would have to move fast, and her cybernetic legs were a blessing in this regard.

  Hidden in the branches of milkwood trees, she programmed the targeting schematics and took aim at the cluster of men guarding the access road. Her finger rested on the trigger as she waited for them to finish their twenty-minute check-in. The man she had designated as the supervisor, due to his bearing and weariness, looked slightly distracted as his gaze retreated slightly inward for the commNet report. His men became slightly more aware of their surroundings, taking up the slack of his neuronal distraction. Thirty seconds later, she softly pulled the trigger three times, the built-in sonic dampeners reducing the gunfire to a mere whisper, hidden by the noise of lashing rain, the muzzle fire a minor puff of smoke lost in the shaking leaves surrounding her. One bullet, one target. Three men dropped dead within microseconds of one another.

  She moved quickly, deeper into the foliage, flanking the short side of the house, invisible. She knew that these men would have to look twice as hard to find her.

  Her mechanized limbs carried her swiftly and quietly through the terrain, propelling her into the higher reaches of an oak tree. She crouched into a V-shaped crook of limbs, her back pressed into the trunk, her heart racing and mouth suddenly dry. She observed the guards through the scope of her rifle, the device interfacing with her own optical upgrades to present a wider field of view and sharper, closer focus on her targets while she uploaded the live targeting solutions to her ammunition.

  A two-man team slid the door open and stepped onto the raised deck, grimacing as the warm rain pelted them. Their hands were empty, but each carried automatic pistols in quick-draw holsters. Neither would be fast enough, or aware enough, to draw on her.

  Two more two-man details emerged on the upper level and ground floor platforms. Six men total, across three different levels of the villa, their movements nearly synchronized. It would not take them very long to cover the outdoor sections of their patrol, even as they moved in different directions.

  The top floor details would be moving to the right side of the house and out of her view the soonest. She took them out first and sent an updated nav plan to the rifle, moving to the mid-tier targets moving toward the left, closest to her. Again, she fired, and the bullets flew true. One guard tumbled backward, splashing into the infinity pool while his partner crumpled to the deck.

  At ground level, the two guards surveyed the open expanse of sand and water beyond the stone wall encircling the villa. They were clumsy, stupid. Worse, complacent. They thought this was a cigarette break, the flick of a lighter destroying their night vision. They died easy, their smokes left smoldering on the beach.

  Akagi dropped to the earth, then darted to the wall, her bladed toes digging into the masonry as she scaled up and over, clinging to the shadows where the minute distortions of chameleonic activity in motion would be less obvious. She moved slowly, the timer on her retinal display counting down toward the next check-in. Only four minutes had elapsed.

  Even though she was, for all intents and purposes, invisible, she still moved cautiously, covering the distance from lawn to patio pavers in a crouched walk, rifle forward and constantly scanning for threats. Taking cover against the flat stretch of wall beside the patio door, she looked toward the dead guards at the wall. The rain was thick enough that she could hardly see their still lumps at the far end of the property. All it would take was one of the roving guards to take notice of the dead men on either of the upper floors or on the driveway to end her covert intrusion.

  She passed through the sliding door, taking a moment to close it behind her and give the guards one less reason to be cautious. Doors were never open, and she left it as she had found it.

  The dining area was sterling and bright white, the long wooden table shiny and spotless. She was hyper-aware of her own noises and clamped down on her own sense of urgency, forcing herself to move slowly and cautiously, her eyes constantly scanning, always alert, always listening.

  A toilet flushed nearby, and she heard a rush of water tumble through the wall she was pressed against. She followed the noise of pipes to a closed door and drew her blade, waiting for the door to open. When it did, she moved quickly, darting up, blade out, jamming the knife into the underside of the man’s jaw, the point of the blade gouging through his throat and severing the brain-spine connection. She grabbed his shirt front, pushing him back into the water closet and closed the door to hide him.

  A snuffling noise came from around the corner, toward the kitchen, followed by the noisy crunch of a German Shepherd inhaling food. The chameleonwear not only hid her physical form, but helped to hide her scent as well, a feature she was eternally grateful for. Two more guards stood nearby, chatting aimlessly about rugby. Slowly, she withdrew a doggy treat from a pocket of her tactical vest and slid it across the floor to the dog. His ears perked and tail wagged as he sniffed at the treat, but the men took no notice, too engaged in their small talk. She willed the dog to eat and breathed a sigh of relief when his teeth crunched through the biscuit, devouring it, practically inhaling the crumbs off the floor before returning to his bowl. The sedative was quick-acting and soon enough the dog was out.

  The men laughed at some joke they shared, then cursed the dog’s snoring. One kicked at the animal’s ribs, and killing them sent a particular satisfaction through her. The dog was still out, though, despite the man’s attempt to abuse him awake. She pulled both corpses behind the kitchen counter, leaving a streak of blood on the white floors.

  Jubber’s selfies and mem recordings, satellite imagery, and her own reconnaissance had allowed her to build a map of the villa’s interior. She knew Jubber’s bedroom was on the topmost floor, a massive half-circle construct with floor-to-ceiling windows providing a one hundred and eighty degree view of 3rd Beach and the Atlantic, encircled with decking and inset pools and a long expanse of furniture. His night life was active enough that he spent much of the day asleep, so she wasn’t worried about him noticing the dead guards outside his room.

  Still, she wasn’t one to dally, and she headed directly for the upper floor. She caught snatches of conversation on the second floor. Her timer clicked closer to the halfway mark, though it felt like she’d been inside much longer, as if time itself was dilating and expanding.

  She paused at the landing to observe. The men were drawing near the stretch of glass separating the massive living room from
the outdoors. She couldn’t risk them catching sight of their fallen companions. A dog padded along beside them, and she swore at herself for this. She hated to compromise, but there was no way she could get one of the tranquilized treats to the dog without putting herself in danger. Regardless, killing the dog would be a last resort.

  The men were executed first. The Shepherd looked confused at first, his brow furrowing and ears rotoscoping for the noises of a threat. She thought, and hoped, that maybe she wouldn’t have to kill this one. A low growl burned through his throat as he padded toward her, and she slowly withdrew a treat and sent it across the floor toward him.

  No luck.

  The dog bolted toward her, but she was able to move aside quickly enough. He sniffed the air for her, still growling, growing angrier. He knew she was there, but couldn’t figure out where. She had to make a decision, and quickly. She chose to push aside all of her basic training on engaging animal hostiles, knowing it was not the practical way to deal with the dog, but knowing full well it was the only moral choice she could live with. She moved fast, wrapping her arm around its throat and covering his body with hers, forcing him to the ground. He was panicked and tried to buck her, but she outweighed him. His head fought to get free, but she had him trapped, pinned down between her legs, one hand clamped across his muzzle while the crook of her arm squeezed either side of his neck to cut off the blood flow to his brain. It took a while, but she was able to choke out the dog and leave him unconscious. Alive, but out of commission. Akagi couldn’t risk him coming to, though, and he could wake up and be on her tail again in less than a minute. From another vest pocket, she withdrew a syringe and a small medicine vial, injecting the dog with a low dose of tranquilizer.

  She proceeded up the stairs once again, stopping outside the closed door that she knew led to Jubber’s bedroom. Switching her optics to thermal, she surveyed the room and the cluster of still bodies, committing positions to memory before shifting her vision back to standard with a series of rapid blink commands.