"Self-replication has been approved then, sir?" the blonde man asks.
"It has."
Pennsylvania
8:01 a.m., 9 January 2093
The vast, desert-like plains between the "Wild, Wild West" Trog-land and the territory of the Faithers looks barren. For as far as the eye can see, there is nothing but minimal wild life.
A pack of feral dogs hides in the shadows between two mounds of dirt. They can hear it and they can feel it—the ground shakes a bit as the distant vehicle approaches. Their eyes sparkle; the internal optics of each drone adjusts to account for distance and speed of the oncoming vehicle. They rise as a unit and scatter to take their positions. Drones can be made to look like anything, and when they are made to look indistinguishable from organic life, they are called sims.
They are not in their positions long. The sim-drones are sucked into the ground all at once. If they were real dogs, they wouldn't have even had time to scream out. The vehicle appears and passes by in a flash, traveling at well over two hundred miles an hour. First stop: Trog-land. Final destination: West Virginia.
Florida
8:09 a.m., 9 January 2093
The Homeland monitoring station is many miles away. The drone "population" is not controlled by people. With millions in service, it's not possible, and the AI of the Grid is far more efficient. The only exception to protocol is when high-value targets are involved.
"We lost them sir," says the government agent sitting at his station.
"All of them?"
"Yes, sir. As usual."
"Were they able to capture a photo of the vehicle?"
"No sir, and once the drone is down, they automatically change course so any trajectory projection is useless. We've used sim-drones that look like canines, rabbits, birds, snakes, and frogs even—anything. Insect ones can't even get past their electro-screens. These 'new model' sim-drones seem to be as useless as older models. We have to send in people."
"Are you volunteering, agent?" His boss is not expecting an answer. "As of today, we don't have to worry about it anymore. We're being re-tasked; orders from Homeland herself. Shut everything down. One day we will build a robot that can circumvent their defenses. Government has infinite patience."
Pennsylvania
8:51 a.m., 9 January 2093
The bullet vehicle looks like a three-car fast-track (train) but with hover tek to drive across any terrain at speeds greater than three hundred miles an hour. The vessel's cockpit control has two drivers, each wearing clear glasses. They are watching the road and every other indicator and sensor from the vessel's main computer. On one side behind them, three men man the jamming, sensors, and communications stations. On the other side, three men oversee the weapons stations.
In the adjacent passenger car, Goth Lila sits reading a small, physical book. The only change in her clothing is that she is wearing a heavy faux-leather jacket and thick combat boots.
"Ground thumpers got seven sim-drones at the cactus junction," a male Goth says as he enters the section and sits down across from her.
"They keep trying, so at least we know they still do 'love' us," Goth Lila says.
"I wonder how many tek-dwellers know that all their birds and pigeons are sim-drones?"
"Would it matter? They wouldn't do anything about it. Aren't pigeons birds?"
"No, they're rats."
"That's no way to talk about one of God's creatures."
"But didn't the Pagans tell you? Real birds are 'environmentally dirty' to the environment." They half-laugh. "When do we get out of this damn place?" he asks. "The Goth Jews are already out of the country."
"We're as important as everyone else is to the Project. We just have to finish our tasks."
He sighs. "I just want to get my family out of here."
"It'll arrive sooner than you think. Can you learn all those languages that fast?"
"I'm good. You told me so. What's this mission?"
Providence Enclave, Pennsylvania (Seven Days Earlier)
12:01 a.m., 2 January 2093
One of the founders of the Resistance Movement, the late Elder Mother Esther, once said, "Can the flapping of a butterfly cause a hurricane? Can the seizing of a book kill a nation?" The government Religion Registration Initiatives turned ordinary citizens into anti-government "freedom" fighters and permanently split the nation into two Americas. Religious leaders found themselves as quasi-military leaders before they even knew it. Some embraced it; others rejected it and disappeared into the tek-cities.
But one of those Resistance leaders, "General" Moses Atticus not only helped move the Movement to its current path, less focused on being "anti-government," but creating a thriving Faith World. With the intra-civil wars in both American Christianity and Judaism brought to a final end, their sole existence could not only be about being against the Grid government of the current President, who would most likely be there for life.
Goth Lila was there when the Protestant Christian denominations of the Resistance met that fateful day—ex-members of dozens of denominations, from Anglican to Southern Baptist. A meeting of all the Resistance leaders from across the country, all thirty states—no Faithers lived in the other twenty-three American states. Today, there are Faithers probably in only twenty of the fifty-three States.
All the old Orders merged into the New Protestant Order, and the Resistance became the Continuum. Today, the Continuum is not only the New Protestant Order, but the new unified Jewish Orders, the Mormon Order, the African Collective, the Shogun, and the Magi.
Goth Lila is allowed into the large, open conference room by guards as the official first meeting of the year is ending. On the holo-walls are the faces of other attendees at locations within the United States and far outside the country. One of the faces is "General" Moses. The images degrade to billions of flashing green dots and then the vid-screens go dark.
Within moments, the Continuum members start vacating the meeting room. General Moses' wife is also in the room; equally respected and followed by the Faither community. Her name is Emma, formally called Mother Moses, but simply known by all as M.
The strategic meetings are formal, planned weeks or months in advance. But the frequent tactical meetings are smaller and whenever and wherever they can pull everyone together. Their tactical street intel meeting begins immediately in the corner of the room; half are Goths and the others are dressed as any Pagan would be in the tek-cities. M joins them and gives Lila a shoulder hug from the side. All the preliminaries of the meeting have already been done. Tactical teams never meet long, most times, it's to physically exchange tek or quickly debrief. Palm tablets with the new protocols are passed out to everyone. The devices are disposals and as soon as the information is reviewed and transferred, they will be physically destroyed.
"As of today, Goth Lila is point," Mikel says "We'll all be at our new African base."
"Enjoy your vacation, Mikel," one of men says.
Mikel laughs. "I'll be sure to send you the postcards."
As the group disperses, M turns to Lila. "I hope you know how much the Continuum and all its members appreciate you."
"I'm just doing my job like everyone else."
"Your group was far more disjointed at the start, before you took charge. We want you to know that you're hard work is noticed. Noticed and appreciated. And I'd be remiss in my religious duties to also add, you are loved and blessed."
Goth Lila can't help but to smile. "Thank you, M. I'm not good at compliments."
"I know. Your mission is as important as everyone else's. It's subtle but will benefit the entire Continuum and all its people long after all of our separate missions are over. It's by no means a trivial thing. All your people must know that."
Goth Lila nods. "They know."
"Also, my husband is sorry he can't grant your request. He promised this Mr. Edison Blair that he would never use his in-country contacts to reach out to him again. You must find others."
"I understand. A promise is important."
"However, Moses has no doubt in your ability to track down anyone you set your sights on."
"When I do find him, does anyone want him for anything?"
"No, but we are very interested. It was a loose thread from the '80s and we like to close the books on any loose threads. Did you talk to Goli already?"
"I did. He said to be very careful."
"Yes, the contractor who killed this boy's father is codenamed, 'The Man Made Out of String.' Considering how the man died and that his home's security was fully active, I don't especially like that codename. Moses talked to this Edison Blair. He warned Logan to take his investigation seriously; he didn't and now he's dead."
"But this time we're the hunters."
"Maybe, but never underestimate your prey. That's why the Continuum is so good. Our enemies always underestimate us, but we never reciprocate. You have a mission to complete."
"Do you miss it yourself, going out on street missions?"
M smiles. "Every day."
Charleston, West Virginia
2:07 p.m., 9 January 2093
A fast-track speeds by on the elevated mono-rail at one hundred fifty miles an hour. It's a twenty-car bullet train painted in a camouflage design of greens, browns, and off-whites. The busy expressway is to its right with queues of ten cars each, one after another, bumper to bumper in auto-drive mode driving at nearly ninety-five miles an hour.
Like many New England states, West Virginia has a high population of expatriates from former Western Europe after it fell to the Islamic Caliphate in 2065. In the Virginias, there is an over-representation of expat British, so much so that this region is often called Neo-Britain or the NUK (Neo-United Kingdom). Other than English, a few other languages are heard among the passengers—talking on their mobile devices.
A young woman passenger is slumped in her chair, her head resting against the window. She's dressed completely in white—top, jacket, dress and boots. Even her short hair is white. Everyone sitting in this section can see she's in distress. The man sitting next to her cautiously stands up, seeing the beads of sweat on her forehead, and sits in another seat.
It is rare, but sometimes a storm trooper policeman or two rides the line. Two of them enter from the back of train into this compartment. Their uniform is a light, motorcycle type helmet with a clear eye shield and navy-colored, full body-armor. The body-armor is bullet proof, explosion resistant, fully linked to the Net for enhanced power, equipped with internal surveillance using all optics and audios, complete interface with the Grid to coordinate tactical operations, internal climate control, GPS link, and exo-skeleton strength enhancements.
One of the passengers sees them and points to the woman.
"Hello, Miss," says one of the policemen.
The woman doesn't respond until he repeats himself another two times. She seems too weak, but then manages to sit up. Her eyes are squinting so she covers them with dark glasses.
"Are you okay, Miss? Are you sick?"
"I'm not feeling well."
"How long have you been feeling this way?"
"It started when I got back home."
"From where?"
"I was out of the country...in the Asian Consortium. In Thailand, I think. I shouldn't have eaten that food. I should never have eaten that real meat. Don't eat anything but pure, synthetic, meat." She seems to doze off.
"Miss, I'm going to swipe your skin with a swab." The policeman reaches over and a small applicator extends from his index finger. He swipes it across her hand and wrist. It retracts and he lifts up the palm display of his glove to his face.
Three seconds later, the policeman steps back and his visor goes from clear to black as the lower half of the faceplate wraps around the rest of his face. His partner activates the same on his helmet.
"Miss, please come with us. We have to call CDC." Passengers closest to them start to jump up from their seats. "Everyone just remain calm and stay in your seats. Miss, can you hear me?"
"What?" she asks. She looks up at them. "What's happening?"
"You're sick, but we've already called for help."
She starts to stand. "Okay...but my portfolio...I need to..."
"Don't worry about that, Miss. We'll get it for you." He turns to his partner. "We'll have to quarantine the whole train until we know who she has had contact with."
"No," the woman says. "I can't be kept here. I have to get...to my destination." She almost falls back, but is grabbed by the policeman.
"Just have a seat, Miss. We'll have medics waiting for you."
His partner taps him on the arm. The portfolio is open and they look at what's inside—reams of diagrams, maps, and formulas on sheets of digital paper marked "Top Secret" in red. Also pictures, but the one that catches their eyes is one that shows some kind of light beam blowing up the moon.
"What are these documents, Miss?"
"No!" the woman jumps up, startling everyone. She grabs at the documents.
One policeman pushes her back as the other grabs her wrists. They handcuff her and set her back down on the seat. The policemen stand back as she fights to get out of the handcuffs. Every passenger, from the closest to the end of the car, is standing and watching.
The policemen pay her no attention. She can struggle until the next Ice Age; she'll never get out.
"Terminate!" she yells at the documents.
Smoke! The portfolio is crackling and they open it up again. The data on the digital paper sheets is erasing.
"Record," one of the policemen says to his helmet computer. The data is gone and the sheets catch on fire. The policemen throw the portfolio to the ground. One of them grabs a white-water cylinder from his holster and fires to put out the flames.
The woman has passed out from all her struggling with the handcuffs.
The fast-track arrives on time at the station, but all the passengers are kept onboard as Centers for Disease Control personnel go car-to-car to verify each person is free of any contaminants. Plenty of uniformed police are on the scene, along with drones in the air and media trying to get a story. The woman is strapped and shackled to a hover-gurney by government medics in bio-suits.
"She's not contagious, whatever it is," one medic says to another.
The medics gesture as a third one backs up the ambulance to them. The arresting policemen approach them.
"How much of those documents did you record?" asks one policeman.
"Hopefully enough for the teks to reconstruct it." The policemen reach the medics. "Make sure she's not left alone," the policeman says to them. "In fact, we'll follow." He gestures to his partner.
"Officer, the woman is already dead," the medic says.
The policemen stop in place. "Is this a biological?" asks one of them.
"No, no. Not any kind of bio-terrorist attack. Whatever the contagion is, it is food-related, drug-related, or a mix."
"We need her identified—now," the other policeman says.
"We'll get you data as soon as we know. She's not in our registry so she must be a foreign citizen."
The medics get the woman into the back of their ambulance. They secure the hover-gurney and close the door. A minute passes, and the woman opens her eyes.
Two medics get into the ambulance. They look at the dashboard's rear compartment vid-screen to see the dead woman in the back, as they drive out of the metro station. Ambulances are one of the only authorized vehicles, besides government police, that can bypass auto-drive.
The vehicle turns a corner and they hear something.
"What was that? Was that the door?"
They look at the vid-screen and it's dark. The driver slams on the brakes. The medics jump out and run to the back. The doors open. It's empty.
"Wasn't she dead?"
"We're in so much trouble."
The panicking medics backtrack on foot, looking all around as the Grid slows surrounding traffic to a stop.
Goth Lila has al
ready taken off her white wig. She pulls off her facial mask. It takes her one minute to unpin her hair, shake it loose, and touch the buttons on her clothes—white turns to black. The medics will look in vain. The police will review all surveillance from any Eyes or drone fly-bys in vain. She didn't jump out the back of the vehicle; it was her little bot—and it flew out. She escaped the vehicle before the ambulance left. She leans back in the middle seats. There are two men, in the driver and passenger seats. The SUV continues to drive—they are already miles away.
Chapter Three: Amish
Providence Enclave, Pennsylvania
10:02 a.m., 12 January 2093
Providence Enclave is one of many Faither enclaves far beyond the major tek-cities, and beyond the Outlands and Trog-land. They are autonomous retro-tek cities in appearance, supposedly many decades behind general society, but their defense tek systems are every bit as advanced as Tek World—the government found that out violently in the last decade.
Education Square is one of many sections of Providence. It houses the enclave's elementary pre-college system, secondary higher education system, and vocational campuses. There are co-ed campuses, male-only, and this one is female-only.
The spacious medical classroom has comfortable, slightly reclined chairs for each student and is in session. Every desk is equipped with an embedded laptop. All the students have tablets to access and read their lesson plans, as well as physical textbooks. In the front of the room, in the right corner is Bones, the artificial human skeleton hanging from a stand, and when activated, with its holo-projectors, shows a life-like circulatory system, tendons and muscles, and all organs. It can also become fully skinned (with the appropriate clothing) and become either gender.
Today is special as they are doing a practicum. From time to time, they get to consult on a real medical case, no holo-simulations or sim-mannequins (artificial bodies made to mimic a human body in every way), but to see the case of an actual person. The privacy of the person is always maintained, but it affords them the opportunity for some real world study.
Metal Flesh (After Eden Series: Tek-Fall, Episode I) Page 3
