Future Perfect - S2

by Fran Heckrotte

  Perhaps, in the beginning, they were a religious sect. If so, they have since evolved beyond worshiping any singular belief. Instead, the Laws of Reason and Numbers guide them. These laws explain the natural order of life, the numbers reflect the impact of their actions on humanity. The first and most sacred law is "Acceptance: All and nothing create balance. They need not be equal for harmony." To accept this truth is to believe good and evil are necessary for humanity to progress. It is this dichotomy of need that drives Healers to fulfill their mission — a mission that, for some, ends in their own self-destruction. How does one justify saving a life only to discover, afterward, that hundreds or thousands have suffered because of his or her deed?

  The second law is "Imperfection: Nothing is perfect. Life is flawed." Simple, yes, but another foundation stone of the Healers' missions. It gives them purpose.

  Healers sense anomalies in the electrical energies of all living organisms. The healthy emit consistent, uniformly timed pulses of energy... like the set of ocean waves surfers long for. All serious health problems, whether physical or mental, disturb the natural balance of life, creating a web of displaced energy. The Healer's job is to locate the source of the disruption and correct it.

  The smallest cellular defect can be modified through mental manipulation by any Healer. Psychological disorders are more difficult to deal with and nearly impossible to cure. Delving into the darkest recesses of the mind is a journey no one wants to make. Only through intense training can the most skilled Healer travel the complexities of the human mind and maintain his or her own sanity. Psychotic quagmires and traps protect the deepest, darkest abysses of the brain, especially those of sociopaths. Thousands of memories flicker continuously, distorting pathways and creating labyrinths virtually impossible for the Healer to escape. It's like being in a room with dozens of strobe lights. Fragmented images appear and disappear, leaving the Healer disoriented, sick and forever lost in a world of insanity. No Healer has ever been able to discover the source of insanity. Some, however, learn to build temporary protective barriers in their patient's mind that staves off the disease, for awhile. Eventually, even the strongest barricades erode and the individual's true nature surfaces. Humanity reaps the benefits of a benevolent genius or suffers the anguish of a malevolent monster. The latter always ends with innocent people dying at some future date.

  The third is "The Law of Balance: to move forward, one must step backward." Humans are stubborn and willfully forgetful. They constantly manipulate history to justify horrendous deeds. Eventually those lies are exposed and mankind moves forward. One atrocity is a greater motivator than a thousand good deeds. Healers insure someone lives to become the monster humanity needs. Tragically, the guilt a Healer may suffer afterward becomes a heavy burden, impossible to carry. Their only solace is the cold embrace of death. The loss is felt by all within The Order.

  Each of the laws seeks to explain mankind's eternal struggle with itself. In so doing, they give purpose to the Healers' lives.

  Enough of my meanderings, though. My mind grows feeble with age and the disease of forgetfulness. Soon I will remember only fragments of a lifetime filled with the richness of living, and then another will tell this story. Only I, though, know all of the players. Only I can attest to the truth of every word about Chantelle and Primeris, two women whose lives will forever change the destiny of humanity.

  CHAPTER 2

  Solaria — 2098 A.D.

  ALMOST A YEAR had passed since Solaria began searching for other Hubots. The government was an expert at covering its tracks, but people always make mistakes, even the best of them. After several false leads, and a lot of wasted time, Solaria was now ninety-three percent positive she had located a third Hubot.

  Dark sunglasses couldn't dispel the interest Solaria was attracting at the Webnet Café. She had learned quickly that her silver hair and teal eyes fascinated humans. To avoid questions from the curious, she wore sunglasses whenever possible, even though she had the ability to change her eye color through bio-chameleon manipulation. The process required too much energy to maintain for long periods, which wasn't logical if sunglasses solved the problem. She didn't realize the glasses added to her mystique.

  Scanning the holovid, Solaria entered a new command on the keyboard and waited. Although the Webnet boasted lightning fast speeds, she found its response time agonizingly slow. Her computer brain processed information in nanoseconds.

  There you are, she thought when the webpage finally loaded. The report was on a site run by an individual calling herself Pixie Dust. Like many sites, it promoted conspiracy theories on UFOs, illegal government activities and companies believed to be affiliated with the cover-ups. From the comments posted on the site, most people thought she was either paranoid or a nutcase. Solaria knew otherwise. Pixie Dust's suspicions weren't crazy.

  The last entry on the site was several months old and focused on the death of a young soldier. According to Pixie Dust, he claimed the military was involved in covert assassination plots against political, economic and scientific figures.

  The U.S. had banned such activities after an embarrassing incident in 2051. A massive oil spill decades earlier had destroyed the American people's faith in offshore drilling. They demanded that the government shut down the rigs and pass new laws prohibiting future wells from being drilled. Even the influence of the massive U.S. war machine couldn't sway public opinion. Too many lives had been destroyed in the aftermath. Oil would have to be gotten elsewhere. Greedy eyes turned toward Brazil. Massive reserves had been discovered close to their shores. The problem was that their president didn't want to risk his country's beaches either. He refused to negotiate with the U.S. government or the oil industry.

  Hungry to maintain military superiority, a prominent U.S. general decided the best solution was eliminating the main obstacle in the deadlock. He ordered two of his men to kill the president of Brazil. Diplomatic relations between the two countries deteriorated when the plot failed. The captured soldiers implicated the general. Embarrassed, the U.S. president apologized. He requested that Congress immediately ban all subversive military activities pertaining to civilian affairs. In theory, the armed forces became strictly a national defense mechanism. Homeland Security and a Congressional committee were appointed the oversight responsibilities for national security. Not everyone liked the decision — certainly not Pixie Dust.

  Investigating rumors and reports about subversive and black ops organizations had become her passion. Every blog entry provided detailed information to support her assertions. The suspicious circumstances surrounding the whistleblower's death, as well as allegations concerning a military squadron called Special Unit 33, were extremely well documented. When Solaria read the word 'Hubot' in the article, she knew Pixie Dust was also dead. Certain government agencies wouldn't risk too much exposure.

  CHAPTER 3

  Peter Wood — Four Months Earlier

  PETER WOOD WAS AN Army communications expert and translator. Fluent in several languages, he was a valuable asset to the military. His new assignment to Special Unit 8 was the reward for eight years of hard work and dedication. He was now an elite member of the command unit in charge of overseeing the operations of several special ops units. For him, it was the dream of a lifetime — until it turned into a nightmare.

  He had been with SU8 for six months. The day had started fairly normally; General Sherah had left a stack of files on his desk with specific orders attached to each one. His job was to review the files and then forward them to the proper department for action. It was while looking through several files that he overheard two soldiers discussing the assassination of a Mid-Eastern sheik. Peter remembered hearing the news reports, but hadn't thought much about them. Someone was always trying to kill heads-of-states.

  The unit insignia on their uniform was what attracted his attention more than the conversation. They were members of SU33. Although under the command of General Sherah, the unit was operated by Col
onel Cranley. He was known for his no-nonsense attitude and his harsh discipline. No one disobeyed him. SU33 was the elite of the elite. As such, even General Sherah seemed to take very little interest in the unit's operations. Complaints were forward to Colonel Cranley, an unusual procedure.

  One soldier was leaning casually against a wall near the swinging door, his arms folded across his chest.

  "He should have given me that assignment," he said. "I'd have finished the job."

  The other man laughed and slapped his companion on the shoulder. "Bullshit, Andy. You need to look in a mirror. You couldn't have gotten within twenty miles of the sheik or his daughter."

  "You ever hear of hair dye?"

  "Yeah. The problem is you don't have any hair. They'd have spotted you —"

  The soldier named Andy suddenly stopped talking and stared at Peter.

  Aware that he had been caught eavesdropping, Peter swallowed nervously. He knew he needed to do something to explain his interest in them.

  "Hi," he said. Andy nodded. The other man stared at him coolly. "I noticed you're with SU33 and, well, I was hoping to try out for that unit. I know it's hard to get in and was wondering if you could give me any pointers."

  Andy relaxed slightly. Turning to his companion, he murmured something. Both laughed.

  "I don't think you're ready for that yet," Andy said, running his eyes over Peter's slender frame. "You look a little... skinny. There's no way you'd be able to carry one of us if we were injured."

  Peter blushed. Although he had no desire to join any other Special Forces unit, the mocking hurt.

  "I'm stronger than I look," he snapped.

  "Sure you are, mate," the other man said. Peter knew he was simply trying to placate him. "If you're serious about joining 33, do some bodybuilding. No one'll take you seriously unless you put on muscle."

  "Yeah," Andy agreed. "Thirty more pounds and you just might make it... that is, if you can pass the rest of the program. Most guys can't even make it through Hell month. Umm, by the way, it's a requirement that you speak at least four languages. Do you speak any others?"

  Peter realized he was being interrogated, albeit subtly.

  "Oh sure. French, Spanish, German, Italian and Mandarin," he said proudly.

  "Six languages. I'm impressed! How fluent are you in them?"

  "Very."

  "Good for you. Any others that you aren't so fluent in?"

  "Plenty," Peter replied, making it sound like a joke. "One day I hope to add Japanese and Russian, but I don't have time to take classes."

  Patting him on the shoulder, the soldier nodded to his companion.

  "Well, it's been good talking to you. By the way, what's your name?"

  "Peter."

  "Well, Peter, we have to go. Put on muscle and maybe we'll see you in a couple of years."

  Before Peter could reply, they turned and left. Peter could hear them talking as they walked but didn't catch the words. The look Andy gave him, as the two left the room, wasn't reassuring.

  CHAPTER 4

  Pixie Dust

  NANCY DUNKIRK WAS 56 years old and considered eccentric by those who knew her. Her nickname, Pixie Dust, didn't help her reputation, either. Neither did the spiked gray hair with tinted orange tips. Obsessed with conspiracy theories, Pixie spent most of her time updating her website that promoted her suspicions about government agencies and politicians. She knew most people thought she was crazy but didn't care. What was important was putting the word out to those who took her seriously.

  * * *

  Sitting at her computer, Pixie meticulously went through each subject line of the new emails in her inbox. She would save the ones worth investigating and delete everything else. Afterward, she backtracked what was left, looking for one in particular.

  "There you are, Snoopingdog... Nice name." Reading the introduction, she frowned. If the information was true, it could confirm everything she had been saying. The government was still using covert groups for illegal operations, assassinations in particular. A new black ops organization had been identified. "What do you think, Igor? Does Snoopingdog sound like someone you'd trust?" The Siamese cat sitting next to the holovid yawned and began grooming her bluish-gray fur. Pixie scratched her between the shoulder blades. At fourteen, Igor was several pounds overweight and quite content with her lot in life. "You're right, of course. Names don't mean anything. There's no reason to get excited until we see his proof. You're such a smart little girl, Igor. What would I do without you?"

  Opening the attachment, Pixie read several articles pertaining to the accidental deaths of two politicians. They had recently demanded an investigation into a Special Ops unit rumored to be operating outside the law. Because the victims were high-ranking Congressmen, Homeland Security was ordered to investigate the incidents. Their conclusion? Unfortunate coincidences. Never mind that both men had been killed within hours of each other under similar circumstances.

  "I knew it! HomeSec is part of the cover-up."

  The next article was about the assassination of a Mid-Eastern sheik. The assassin was believed to have been a member of the Royal Guard. He had been killed during the attempt, making interrogation impossible. No groups claimed responsibility. Even those opposing the Sheik's progressive attitude denied involvement.

  Snoopingdog had typed a comment next to that article.

  Check Special Unit 33 and Colonel Walter Cranley.

  Overheard convo implementing them in this.

  "Colonel Cranley. Hmmm. Let's see what we can find on you."

  Pixie searched the Webnet for information on Colonel Cranley. Other than a graduation announcement from a prestigious military academy and two command tours in Europe and Northeast Asia, data was conspicuously scarce.

  "No one is that anonymous," she murmured. "Especially someone with his rank and responsibilities."

  Intrigued, Pixie sent Snoopingdog a reply, asking him to meet with her. If his evidence proved accurate, a major news organization would have to take her seriously. Almost instantly, a response popped up in her mailbox.

  "That was quick." Snoopingdog named a location and time for the rendezvous. She had only two hours to get there. "Shit. I hope you have something worthwhile. We don't like going out at night, do we, precious?" Picking up the cat, Pixie buried her face in the cat's furry neck. "Well, I'll just fix you some warm milk... real milk. Nothing but the best for my little girl."

  CHAPTER 5

  Special Unit 33

  THE TAVERN WAS tucked away in a lazy part of the city. The taxi ride had taken less than twenty minutes. When she entered the darkened bar, she glanced nervously at the clientele scattered around the small room. No one looked suspicious, which didn't mean a thing. At the counter, a young man was busy washing glasses while a middle-aged woman poured drinks and chatted with three men. Pixie ordered peach and pineapple juice. The bartender gave her a strange look.

  "Lady, this isn't a health club. The only thing I have in peach is schnapps."

  "With pineapple juice?" Pixie made a face. "Just give me pineapple juice."

  Shaking his head, he filled a glass and handed it to her.

  "Thanks," she said and took a sip.

  Might as well make myself comfortable. It's up to Snoopingdog to make the first move, Pixie thought, moving to a vacant table.

  For fifty minutes, Pixie waited. When no one approached her, she decided to call it quits. The pain in her neck and left arm was almost unbearable. Pulling a small vial from her coat pocket, she poured it into the pineapple juice and quickly downed the entire contents.

  Damn government! she thought for the millionth time. Not a day went by without her cursing the people responsible for the constant pain she endured. Some days were better than others, but none were ever pain free.

  * * *

  Nancy was thirteen when she broke her left wrist. The doctors told her parents the break would heal without any complications, but two of the carpal bones had severed the radial nerve
to her hand. She wouldn't be able to control her thumb, index and middle fingers. They did, however, offer hope. A clinical trial on nerve regeneration was about to begin. Nancy's age and injury made her a perfect candidate for the experiment drug being tested. Her parents were assured that the best scientists in the world had developed the treatment and it was perfectly safe. The worst that could happen was nothing.

  Three times a week, for ten weeks, Nancy was taken to the clinic. The treatment was excruciating. Long needles were inserted into the injured area, as well as the nerve paths leading up to the shoulder. Although progress was slow, the procedure proved successful. Healthy new cells replaced the damaged ones and Nancy regained full use of her hand. An occasional twinge of pain near the break was the only reminder of the entire experience — a small price to pay.

  Six months later, Nancy awoke with a stiff neck that lasted a few hours before going away. Two days later, the stiffness returned. Again it disappeared. No one thought much about it until the third time it appeared. Worried, her parents took her to the doctor. After a thorough examination, he advised them to consult with a neurologist. Nerve conduction studies indicated several transmission abnormalities. The electrical signals to her neck were slowing. Nancy was exhibiting all the symptoms of a disease known as Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, a debilitating disorder that would grow progressively worse over time, and was incurable. The cause was unknown, but her parents believed their daughter's condition was the result of the clinical trial.

  All attempts to confirm their suspicions were continually thwarted by the pharmaceutical company. The Federal Drug Administration, a recently formed department of the FDA, refused to investigate, and politely suggested it would be in their best interests to retract the formal complaint. The Commissioner was satisfied with the trial results and had fast-tracked FDA approval. The Dunkirks understood the message: Back off and shut up!