Death From Above!

by J. I. Greco

  “With cool motorcycles.”

  “Lightcycles,” Trip says, stabbing his cig at Rudy. “They’re called lightcycles.”

  Rudy flinches at the cig, sure he is dodging a winged train barreling at him. “The sequel had lightcycles. And that Wilde chick in a skin-tight neon jumpsuit. Upgrade.”

  “But you know what it didn’t have?”

  “Mics in the shot?” Rudy says with a chuckle.

  Trip ignores him. “It didn’t have the same universe.”

  “Of course it did. The kid was Flynn’s son. And it had computer programs running around inside a computer. That’s the same universe.”

  “No, the Tron universe is actual programs running around inside a computer—a self-created proto-Internet slash cyberspace, a universe created by the interaction of millions of different programs, the underlying architecture of the CPU supporting it all, as well as providing its uniqueness. The Tron Legacy universe is simulated people running around inside a simulation of the original’s universe. A simulation programmed by a human, with rules and laws coded to approximate the original, spontaneous universe, and divorced from any hardware it was running on.”

  “So what?”

  “So, it was basically just a fancy Sim Life. I don’t care how clever Flynn was, there was no way he could model into the simulated universe the inherent chaos system of the spontaneous universe. Making the simulated universe nothing more than a complex game. A mind wank. The programs didn’t have any free will. Nothing they did mattered. It was all AI, created by a fallible man-child god.”

  “Ah, stakes.” Rudy reaches out toward the dashboard. “Um… steaks. Come to papa,” he says, grabbing up the hallucinatory plate of rare T-bone, baked potato, and ketchup, floating in the air in front of him.

  “Yes, stakes,” Trip says, twitching the Wound into a sharp right turn onto another two-laner. “When Tron killed the MCP in the first one, it mattered. He was saving a real universe. The programs had real sentience. Not artificial, not programmed by any god except those they invented themselves, limited only by hardware constraints.”

  “I see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Rudy says, furiously cutting into his imaginary steak with an imaginary knife and forking big chunks of imaginary ketchup-drenched imaginary meat into his mouth. “Too much, one might say. I say that.”

  “It has kept me up at nights,” Trip says with a thoughtful sigh. “Well, okay not that but the whole probing the dark memory zone inside my implant, but after a while my mind drifts inevitably to thoughts of how much I hate Tron Legacy, if only for the wasted potential. And for not having any actual Tron in it.”

  Rudy’s imaginary fork, loaded with imaginary potato, pauses at his lips and he looks over at his brother. “Wait a sec, there. It did have Tron. That Rinzler guy. He turned out to be Tron. Somehow.”

  “No, it had some last-minute post-production tinkering and an ADR line about fighting for the users thrown in, as an afterthought.” Trip plucks an onion ring from Rudy’s plate and pops it into his mouth. “It’s a frakking Tron movie – don’t you think it should have gone without saying that it should have some actual Tron in it, for Shatner’s sake? And don’t even get me started on the music.”

  Rudy watches his brother chew, very confused. “Yeah, that I did find weird. The music from the first one, that’s like iconic.”

  “And what did Legacy give us?” Trip asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his seven-fingered claw. “New music. Bah. And only a few tinny notes of the original score from a toy. What, they couldn’t have done a remix of the original theme over the end credits? Even Star Trek got at least that right.”

  “Oy, vey, that Star Trek reboot.”

  “Yeah, Kelvin timeline can suck it.” Trip’s voice trails off as he looks out the windshield and down the road, a rising dust cloud on the horizon. “Um… You did say Lock set up shop in Billtown, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s what Bernie told me,” Rudy says, putting his plate and utensils in the dishwasher that’s appeared inside the glove compartment.

  Trip scowls at the shapes inside the dust cloud. Tall, shining spires of nano-machine manipulated steel surrounded by a two-story high wall of concrete. “I didn’t know Billtown had a city.”

  “You were expecting ramshackle, weren’t you?”

  “It’s the Wasteland, of course I was expecting ramshackle.”

  “It was a ramshackle. Then Lock and her ex-zombie army moved in.” Rudy squints out the front window at the approaching city. And the laughing demon giants lined up behind it, waiting for him. He reaches under his shirt and pinches his nipple twice, backing off on the LSD flow. “And made… that. I am seeing that, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re seeing that. Well, minus the demons. No demons.”

  “Cool… wait. Did I mention the demons? I don’t remember mentioning the demons.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Trip says. He whistles in appreciation at his pseudo-daughter’s city. “So in six months, they built that?”

  “Lock built the All-Mart – she knows a few things about building rapidly. And, apparently, massively.”

  “Well, I wanted to get some industrious zombie-like workers.”

  “Looks like we came to the right place,” Rudy nods, then sinks down into his seat, chewing his thumbnail nervously. “Except for the demons. I do not like the look of them. They could be Belgian—we will have to be on our guard.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sir, it’s time,” Brenda says as she opens the heavy blinds and lets the sunlight stream into the private chamber at the top of the highest tower in Lock’s city-state.

  The shaft of light strikes the pool of gray goo in the center of the chamber. The goo ripples, tendrils of the thick liquid spearing out towards a central point, a mouth with delicate lips forming on the surface of the sphere the tendrils form.

  “You know you don’t have to call me ‘sir’?” Lock’s lips say, the rest of her body rising from the pool, formed by hundreds of finger-thick tendrils of nanochines shooting up from the pool, writhing together to make a torso, arms, belly.

  Brenda walks to the edge of the pool. Around the periphery of the chamber stand Lock’s attendants, a cross-section of the Combine’s population selected at random for the honor, their backs respectfully turned to their queen. “It’s good that the others hear it, if only to remind them of the hierarchy.”

  Her hips and thighs emerging from the pool, fine, wispy tendrils snake out from her scalp to sculpt out Lock’s eyes, hers ears and nose forcing themselves into being. “I doubt they’ll forget the hierarchy. Most of them have been with me for years.”

  “And most of that time as mind-controlled slaves,” Brenda says. “They’re no longer under your mental influence.”

  “Oh, they’re still under my influence,” Lock says with a sly smile, her body lifting almost fully out of the pool, her feet and toes forming, her skin developing life-like pores and a smattering of calculated imperfections.

  “You know what I meant. They no longer have your nanochines coursing through their blood.”

  “Are you saying I should start questioning their loyalty?” Lock steps out of the pool, her arms outstretched. Tendrils in the pool form a robe, thick and brocaded, other tendrils lifting the robe out and draping it over her. “Because if we’re at that point, I could just slip some nanochines into the food supply and put an end to any nascent revolution right now.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, sir.” Brenda helps Lock button the front of the robe, then cinches the wide belt. “I’ve seen no signs that the people’s adoration and dedication to you is faltering. In fact, it is probably stronger now than when you were their All-Mart.”

  “Then why the whole ‘sir’ business, Marcie?”

  Brenda’s head jogs slightly, indicating the attendants surrounding them. “It’s not yours and their place in the hierarchy I would like to remind them of.”

  “Ah, got it.” Lock’
s skin ripples, transitioning from gray to take on a deep golden bronze sheen. White spreads out over her gray eyes, a burst of the reddest-red flashing out to color her irises. “Well, go pick a few at random and have them killed as an example. Trust me, that’ll leave them no doubt who my second-in-command is.”

  “Sir, we talked about this,” Brenda says. “Random killing of your own subjects is on the no-no list.”

  “A list I don’t remember agreeing to abide by.”

  “You did. Or I leave. That was the deal.”

  “Like you’d ever go trade in the big combine lights and action and go back to that shithole of a sinkhole Shunk.”

  “The Cthulists are always recruiting.”

  “You won’t let me give you your own nanochines so you can transform that vulnerable meat-bod of yours into something more practical, but you’d let those genetically engineered multi-dimensional-demon worshiping freaks turn you into a veggie-pus? Maybe I should let you go, if your judgment is that bad.”

  Brenda sighs. “Are we ready to go over today’s schedule, or would you like to banter some more?”

  “Pencil some more banter in for after lunch.” Lock raises her hand, fanning out her fingers just the slightest. Behind her, thick tendrils rise from the pool, slushing together to rapidly form a wide, high-backed chair. Without looking, Lock takes two steps back and sits, just as the throne completes weaving itself. “We’re still on for lunch, right?”

  “Of course,” Brenda says, reaching into the weathered leather bag at her hip. She pulls out a small notebook, kept shut by a dozen rubber bands. “But before that, there’s a rather busy schedule ahead of you.”

  “Don’t know if I like the sound of that,” Lock says, feigning a yawn. “Tell you what. Clear the decks. Nothing until after our after-lunch banter. We’ll go driving, or something. Get some fresh-ish Wasteland air, maybe find some non-subjects who aren’t covered by the no-no list and mind-control them into fighting each other to the death.”

  Brenda rolls the rubber bands off the notebook, stuffing them away in the pocket of her jacket, the sharp striped one with the epaulets and flared collar. She flips the notebook open. “As tempting as that sounds, we can’t clear the decks entirely.”

  “If you say I have to inspect the tank factory again, I swear I’m going to nanochine you and make you dance the dance of a thousand veils for my puerile enjoyment.”

  “Like you need to nanochine me to do that,” Brenda says with a playful bob of her head. “But no, no tank inspection today. Even though the retrofit of the tank factory’s a lynchpin to our plans, and you stopping by to check on the progress would be a huge morale builder to the workers and management alike.”

  “I’ll send them a nice signed painting of me they can hang on the factory entrance archway, you know, so I can greet them in spirit every morning when they show up for work.”

  “They’ve already got one. Maybe they can hang the new one in the bathroom.”

  “Wow, you are really begging for nanochines today, aren’t you?”

  “Or maybe I’m just advocating spruced-up bathrooms. There isn’t a room your picture couldn’t brighten.”

  “Can’t argue with that. Okay, so no tank factory inspection. We can go driving.”

  “The new prototype is ready.”

  “Ooh, it’s test day?”

  “It’s test day.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” Lock asks, leaning forward. “You know how I love me my test day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s go test.” Lock slides off the throne and marches for the door, an attendant opening it for her. Half-way there, she stops and turns around to look at Brenda, standing there facing the throne, reading her notebook. “And you’re not following me. Why are you not following me? Is not my child-like enthusiasm so infectious it just makes you want to both scurry along after me unquestioningly and puke your ever-loving guts out?”

  “There is one other matter.”

  “And you suspect it’s not going to fill me with feelings of utter joy?” Lock spins around on her heel. “Is it about bunnies? I bet it’s about bunnies. Stupid bunnies. They get into the power-plant wiring again, gain radioactive superpowers, and go on a killing spree? Wait, that might actually be worth seeing.”

  Brenda looks over her shoulder at Lock. “Your father and uncle showed up at the front gate an hour ago.”

  “And you’re only telling me this now because…?”

  “It’s been six months, and you didn’t exactly part with them on the best of terms.”

  “What, just because I was going to kill that woman of his?”

  “Yes. Because you were going to kill the Mother Superior. His woman.”

  “Would have been a mercy killing. Anyway, I didn’t. Did he say what he wants?”

  Brenda lowers her voice and grumbles out, “Revenge.”

  “Really? He said that?”

  “Nah, just kidding. He’s got a business proposal.”

  “Of course he does.”

  Brenda nods. “Probably some donkey-brained idea that’ll go nowhere and end in lost investment for you, embarrassment for him, and tragedy for the planet in general.”

  “Still, I should probably see him,” Lock says.

  “I can bump them to tomorrow, get them a nice room in the cheaper motel.”

  “No, I’ll see them this morning.”

  “What about the test?”

  “They can come,” Lock says. “There’s always room in my schedule to rub things in.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You want what?” Lock asks, leaning back to let the swarm of attendants remove plates and utensils, clearing the table for after-lunch coffee and fruit. Except for Rudy’s plate—he bats away all efforts to take his plate, grunting while he gnaws at a chicken leg with one hand, grabbing the rest of the chicken with the other before it’s taken away.

  “A thousand zombie workers,” Trip says, slugging down his coffee as soon as the attendant’s finished filling it. He holds it out for another top off. “And hard workers. Don’t try to unload all your slackers on me. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

  “Not for me,” Lock says. Standing behind her, Brenda cups her hand to her ear and mumbles something into her throat mike.

  “Good… good,” Trip says. He downs half the coffee this time, but instead of waving for a refill, he plucks the pot from the attendant’s hand. The attendant stares at him for a moment, then shrugs, backing away. Trip starts spooning sugar into his cup, spoon after heaping spoon. “About time my luck changed.”

  Lock gives him a bemused look across the table. “Oh, it didn’t change. It’s not a problem for me. Just for you. Even if they would voluntarily leave my service, which they won’t, because I’m me, and they love me more than their own lives, I can’t spare the workers.”

  “Okay, then ten,” Trip says, giving the coffee a quick stir, making a sludge. He fills the cup up the rest of the way, to the very brim, and holds it up to his lips, pinky out. “I’ll settle for ten.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting it,” Lock says. She turns to Rudy, pulling at a chicken carcass for any meat he can get. “I don’t think he’s getting it.”

  Rudy shakes his head and says around a mouthful of chicken, “He’s not getting it.”

  “I’m not getting it,” Trip admits. “What could you possibly need all these zombies for? You’ve built your city, it’s nice, but how much bigger does it need to be? And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but while you’ve been building this place there’s a war going on out there. It’s downright selfish to be hogging all this zombie labor on what amounts to a vanity project when they could be contributing to the war effort.”

  “By building your little war cars?” Lock asks.

  “Megacars. I’m calling them megacars.”

  “So let me see I’ve got this straight. You want me to give you zombies so they can build war cars for you. Which you wil
l then sell?”

  “Capitalism’s sorta my bag.”

  “Purely for self-defense, I take it?”

  “I just make ‘em and sell them at a ridiculous war-economy profiteering margin. What they get used for is entirely up to the buyer. I make no moral judgments.” Trip slurps down the last of the sludge. “I’m above all that rigamarole.”

  Lock smirks. “Except when you’re trying to guilt me into giving you some free labor.”

  “Whatever works.” Trip looks up from dumping sugar into his empty cup, arching an eyebrow. “Did it work?”

  “No, of course it didn’t work,” Lock says. “It just makes me double-down on the whole ‘nope’ thing. Why would I give free labor to a competitor?”

  “A what?”

  “A competitor,” Lock says, fanning her fingers at the coffee pot next to Trip’s elbow. The table sprouts a tendril, picking up the tea-pot, and tipping it over Trip’s cup to fill it. “Not a serious competitor, but still, who needs a roadside banana stand hawking rotten fruit in the parking lot of the nice shiny big box store? Don’t need you annoying my customers.”

  “Rotten fruit? I’ll have you know these megacars are going to be state-of-the-art, for 1943, and perfectly suited for the kind of rough-and-tumble bang-bang boom-boom slap-your-fanny-and-sing-Matilda war faring challenges of the modern post-apocalyptic battlefield. —Rudy, show her the blueprints.”

  “Um, no blueprints, but I do have some napkin sketches.”

  “Then show her the napkin sketches.”

  Lock shakes his head. “I don’t need to see the sketches.”

  “She says she doesn’t need to see the sketches,” Rudy says, eyeing up a tray of sliced oranges an attendant holds out to him.