Sleeper Protocol
Page 12
“Jenkins! On your gun!”
Jenkins popped up and began to fire. I worked through the jammed mechanism quickly, slapping the top of the M2 machine gun down and yanking the charging handle to the rear. I grabbed the handles, keyed the trigger with my thumbs, and continued to fire.
“RPG!” Jenkins screamed. I looked to the left to see into Jenkin’s sector of fire as the rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the front quarter of the tank with a mighty whump. In slow motion, I dropped through the hatch to the floor of the turret. The tank lurched forward, and I knew that Coleman, our driver, was dead and he’d left the tank in drive with the accelerator engaged. We idled forward toward the insurgents. The tank veered to the left. The left track gone, we were out of control and unable to stop. An improvised explosive device, hidden behind the first car we rolled into, detonated. Everything turned to heat.
I startled awake as the suborbital plane descended through forty-six miles of altitude toward the Republic of California. A flight attendant appeared at my side and set a bottle of water and two pills on my seat-mounted table. She moved away before I could ask what it was.
Mally spoke in my head. <
I grunted and picked up the offered painkillers. Thank you, Mally. Wait, how did you do that?
<>
The flight from Sydney lasted less than six hours. The hypersonic vessel I rode in didn’t resemble any aircraft I’d ever seen or ridden in. There was no sensation of sitting in a pressurized tube. The seating and entertainment consoles looked more like the decor of an ornate hotel lobby and bar than the inside of a fuselage. I stretched in the supple seat and rubbed my face to clear the last wisps of my dream.
Was that dream my death, Mally? Or just another dream? The thought came from nowhere.
<
Taking a drink of water, I was struck by the change in Mally’s tone. I’d noticed that she was less mechanical sounding and more like another person. I did not miss the mechanical voice at all. Her new voice made me smile. What are you talking about?
<
That’s not where Berkeley is, though. She invited me to California.
<
Where are we landing? Los Angeles? San Francisco?
<
No, Mally.
<
I’d figured as much, given the worst-case scenario Allan had painted for me. Through the window, the white-hot lights of the coast ahead beckoned me, and it felt familiar, maybe even expected. It couldn’t be as bad as Allan said it was. A country in ruins, fighting amongst citizens and states, and lawlessness in the outlands beyond California all sounded downright ludicrous. If it was really that bad, I’d arrange transportation to a point closer to Tennessee.
I held onto that thought as I walked about the airport and into a bustling, congested hell. The warm, dry air felt good, and I wondered idly if California had finally found a way out of seemingly constant drought. Mally did not respond. Hundreds of autocars whipped in and out of the airport. I looked around and caught a man with white hair watching me. He glanced away down the concourse. Mally? Is this place always like this?
After a brief pause, she said, <
So, not that many people are leaving?
<
I chuckled. Hawaii should’ve used that motto first.
<
Sobered, I hailed an autocar and stepped inside.
“Destination, please.” The car’s voice spoke in a low monotone.
For a moment I was speechless.
<
The car spun and lifted into the sky. While watching the flying cars hadn’t been too difficult for me, riding in one for the first time was very different. In the distance, poking through the constant light of the city, were ragged holes that I slowly recognized as the craggy peaks outside of Phoenix. The car made abrupt turns and changes of direction without throwing me around the cockpit. How is that possible?
<
No. Mally, please search for and connect to Berkeley Franks.
<
Shrugging, I replied, It’s her fault we’re here. The invitation, remember?
The autocar’s communication suite opened, and after several squealing tones, a flashing icon that read “Connection Established” lit up the right side of the screen. A moment later, the smiling face of the beautiful woman I’d found sitting on my towel appeared.
“Sleepy,” she said with half-lidded eyes. “You do realize that it’s past midnight here, don’t you? You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”
I’d grown used to the nickname, and in light of the fact my own name still escaped me, it worked as well as anything, I supposed. “Not at all. I just landed in Phoenix.”
“Oh!” Her eyes snapped wide open. “Where are you going?”
Smiling, I said, “Tennessee.”
“You can’t get there from Phoenix, you know.”
“What are you talking about? I’m in a flying car. I can go anywhere.”
Berkeley laughed, and it made my face flush. “No, you can’t. There is hardly anything like civilization east of California’s borders until you get to the Mississippi River. Plus, most of the eastern coast of North America is a no-fly zone. You can’t fly into Tennessee without permission, but you can walk in provided you can get across the rivers.”
“Walk?” They did call it a walkabout, I supposed.
“Yes.” Berkeley smiled. “Still want to go?”
I hadn’t come that far for nothing. I nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Not without me, you’re not. I can be there in a few hours. You do realize it’s a really long walk, right?”
�
�Something like a thousand miles or more, yeah.”
Her eyes were twinkling as I spoke.
“Are you serious about coming with me?”
“Yes!” Her smile broadened over perfect teeth. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. A flashing memory of a brunette from Norway dancing down a path in Australia ran through my mind.
“I said, are you okay?” The smile was gone, replaced by a look of concern.
“Sorry, Berkeley. A memory—that’s all.”
Her face came alive in a lovely way. “Meet me in Flagstaff. Have your protocol reserve a room at the Weatherford Hotel, and I’ll meet you there in a few hours. We can get a few supplies, a good meal, and a night’s sleep before heading out. Is that all right with you?”
The plan sounded like perfection, and I said so. We rang off, and Mally spoke in the silence of my mind. <>
Why two nights?
<>
The lights of Phoenix faded behind us as the autocar sped north amidst rapidly thinning traffic. After ten minutes, only a few pairs of lights were visible in the sky around us. Leaning against the window, I tried to determine how high we were flying. Within a few seconds, clouds surrounded the vehicle. Flashing red-and-white lights from the car’s bumpers reflected against the grey wall of mist. We were completely alone.
Mally, am I doing this right?
<>
Shrugging, I chuckled. Never mind.
A computer would never understand loneliness. I missed Allan and my friends, but there was more to it. I was lonely. Mally was my companion, but I doubted that she would give me anything more than a list of potential cures or psychoses related to my condition.
Family. Allan’s voice brought instant calm to me. He was right. How am I going to find anything close to family?
<
That’s not going to do me any good without my name or even a clue as to who I am.
<>
There’s no information about me you can get, is there?
<
I squinted. I must sound crazy to you.
<> The touch of levity in her voice made me smile.
The clouds disappeared as we coasted in to Flagstaff. A large domed building streaked past. A telescope, my mind chimed. Lowell Observatory. The hilltop observatory, home to both the original sketches Percival Lowell made during his Martian observations and the telescope responsible for finding Pluto, was a beautiful reminder of how science had truly evolved. Mally, I want to go to Lowell Observatory while I am here. It may call up a memory.
<
If you want to call the rest of the spherical bodies in the solar system planets, fine, but there is nothing minor about Pluto. Just my opinion.
Before Mally could respond, the car called, “Destination approaching. Please ensure you are seated and wearing an appropriate harness for your body type.”
Wondering what the hell that meant, I watched as the autocar landed outside the glass-windowed lobby of the Weatherford. The old brick building with its tall, curving veranda stuck out like a sore thumb among the sleek glass storefronts. Holographic screen advertisements for totally alien products flashed up and down the street except for the block around the stately hotel. A single spire rose from its roof. I couldn’t help but think it was an anachronism just like me, and I smiled. That Berkeley had recommended the hotel, most likely for that reason, was a touching thought. As the car’s door opened, a frigid wind tore into the cabin. Hurrying into the ornate lobby, I added heavy winter clothing to my mental shopping list. A bellman collected my small backpack and led me to a room on the second floor. The interior of the hotel, with softly lit hallways and individual lamps by the doors, felt almost like a museum. A sign for paranormal experiences beckoned down the opposite hallway. Inside the quaint, Victorian-inflected room, two beds dominated one wall. I tossed my backpack on the edge of one bed and sat down to take off my shoes. The soft bed felt good, and I lay back, leaving my feet on the floor.
I was asleep in seconds. Berkeley came in sometime later, but I never heard her. I woke in the morning to see her curled up in the covers of her bed. When she woke, we had coffee and made a plan. We spent the next day trudging through heavy snow from one outfitter to another. I never made it to Lowell Observatory, but the small, round tomb of Percival Lowell, glinting in the early-morning sun, caught my eye. The tomb sat next to a larger telescope, where Lowell had observed Mars and dreamed of canals and civilizations. The morning drew long as we laid our logistical plan and shopped. Loaded with supplies in our enormous external-frame backpacks, we made it back to the Weatherford for a late lunch of chili and cornbread and sat down by the fireplace for a beer.
“You sure you want to do this?” Berkeley smiled over her mug.
I shrugged. “I have to.”
The fire was warm on my shoulder as I drank a beer less satisfying than Tooheys and watched the light on Berkeley’s hair. The curve of her jawline and mouth was beautiful, and I loved the blueness of her eyes. Making the journey with her was shaping up to be a great decision. “You might change your mind about it.”
“Why do you think so?”
She shrugged. “You’ll see tomorrow night. They only open the gates at midnight, Sleepy. When we step through, you might not like what you see.”
After two in the morning, Berkeley woke via a silent neural cue. She lay with her back to Sleepy, who snored softly from the other bed. A series of blinks opened her communications application, and she began to silently dictate.
Initial report. Subject is stable and firmly in Stage Three. I’m unable to connect to protocol by any passive means, including via ADMIN frequency. The protocol appears stable, but the inability to connect is troubling. Will continue to work on the issue.
Subject and I will be leaving California tomorrow at the Flagstaff portal. Unknown course except that subject intends to go to Tennessee and would rather walk than request a government transport. I agree that it’s the surest way not to overload his ability to process information at this point.
Will continue to update progress when possible.
I heard them long before I saw them. The chorus of wailing voices and incoherent screams rang above the fifty-foot concrete wall separating the Republic of California from the frontier. Berkeley and I walked in a cool winter rain that melted the snow and left a haze across the horizon. The air smelled of burnt rubber and oil, the bright lights and audacity of the continuous metropolis of California at our backs. Raindrops hung like diamonds on the rows of razor wire atop the wall, angled into the frontier to keep out the unwanted. The armed guards with sniper rifles scattered along the top were overkill. But it was typical. California exuded domination of the landscape. What I’d known as Nevada and Arizona met the same fate as Oregon and Washington, ceasing to exist in California’s search for resources and living space.
Our shadows stretched under the searchlights as we neared a complex of buildings at the base of the wall. Heavy steel doors sat closed against the hordes that stood on the other side, demanding entry. There was no one waiting to leave California. Trash swept through the deserted queues and filled the corners and crevices around
the building. A bullet-riddled sign read “Port Of Entry, Knock For Admittance.”
Ten times, I thumped my fist against the steel door before the heavy lock slid open. Inside, we found a barely conscious guard with a potbelly and crazy eyes. We looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing.
“Card.”
I handed him the thin metal card given to me at the Integration Center and waited, wishing that I could read the information he consulted on the screen. In thirty seconds, he knew more about me than I did. He snorted, and I caught a whiff of peyote. Aside from the sizable pistol strapped to his leg, he looked like a ragged security guard in an ill-fitting uniform with a tarnished badge on his chest. Slouched in his chair without authority, or even pretense, he must have been appointed to his position and felt totally out of place—the kind of man put to work doing a job because it was the only job he could do. Manning a port of entry would be easy enough for him because, as Berkeley said, California hardly ever let anyone in, and only the craziest people ever wanted to leave.
Down a squalid hallway, a matching set of enormous steel doors waited. We approached them and felt the vibrating motors whining to life, probably for the first time in years. The piston locks retracted, and the door swung open, streaming bright white light into the darkness of the frontier. The cacophony of noise outside ceased in an instant, even the cries of the children. Blinded by the harsh lights, I could barely see anything in the gaping darkness. I tightened the shoulder straps of my backpack, the sum of my entire worth, and set my feet moving. I hoped that all of this would serve some kind of purpose.