by M. K. Gibson
“There isn’t much to tell, really. After my dad did what he did to me, I aged slower than the other kids. When I reached maturity, I stopped aging altogether. It took a while for that realization to set in. My mom had predicted God’s abandonment and the rise of Hell, and I knew an inevitable war would break out. I remember reading that the richest men in times of war were the arms dealers and the ones who had necessary supplies. So over the years I spent quite a bit of time accumulating stuff. Anything—odds and ends, food, weapons, supplies—and I kept them in various caches. As the city built up, I moved them around. And with every client I supplied to, I created a contact. So, I quickly became the guy who could get things. And then it was just a short step to becoming a smuggler and lightrunning.” I shrugged and ashed my smoke.
“Lightrunning?” Father Grimm said quizzically.
“That’s a second question. But I will let it slide. Yeah, lightrunning, oh ye of the technologically impaired. Traditional smuggling consists of goods and the like being transported covertly. Be it to avoid tax, or because it is a rare black market item. Whatever. Usually smuggling is about secrecy and avoiding confrontation. When confrontation does arise: bribe, run, or dump. A lightrunner, however, will transport tech, data, code, or rare goods while armed and prepared to kick ass. We will get your merch one way or the other. We are called lightrunners because we move fast and travel light and little gets in our way. And there are only two kinds of lightrunners…” I paused for dramatic effect.
Father Grimm stared at me for a moment, then half rolled his eyes, gave a slight shake of his head and said, “Go ahead, you know you want to say it.”
“…Good or dead,” I said, finishing my statement smiling, with melodrama dripping from my words. He didn’t react and my humor was wasted on him. Tech-impaired and humorless. Sad. His mother had probably dropped him on his head or something.
My stomach began rumbling again. Hard. I did lose a lot of blood and I needed the iron. I turned to the spooky mage. “You hungry? I am going to have a steak if you want one also.” I realized in the last half hour or so this guy had broken into my home, assaulted me, drank my scotch, and somehow got me to spill my guts, and now I was offering him steak. Today was just a weird, weird day.
“Yes, thank you,” Father Grimm said. He watched as I went back into one of my storerooms and got into the stasis pods. I gestured for him to follow me and we walked down to the galley.
I fired up the grill and the overhead exhaust fan and slapped the two fillet-cut hunks of steak onto the flame, then started heating up a couple of baked potatoes in the hydro pressure cooker. As I cooked I flipped on an ancient MP3 player and let a playlist run a mix of Irish punk.
I watched Grimm out of the corner of my eye as he took in my home. I could see questions forming.
“Go ahead and ask,” I said to him.
“I don’t understand yet how you obtained your collection, but how do you keep it pristine and the food fresh?”
“Again, my dad. One of his tech patents was a stasis technology. Phase Shifting. Anything within the Phase Shift, whether organic or inorganic, remained inert and unaffected to the passage of time, because technically it was outside of time. Comes in handy, believe me. It really helps for when clients want the ultra-rare item. Sure, I go through the motions of it being nearly impossible and costing them greatly. Then I go on a three-day staycation, grab the item I already had, and sell it for an insane amount of credits.”
“You don’t see that as unethical?”
“We are immortals,” I said as I flipped the steaks. “Ethics are only a matter of fashion’s flow. And in the current times, when mankind is dominated by the lords of Hell, ethics don’t exist. Besides, squeezing a few extra credits from indulgent rich fucks isn’t that bad.”
“Poetic.”
“It’s a gift,” I said, getting the steaks off the grill and onto a couple of plates. I brought everything to the table and sat down across from the ancient holy man to enjoy a nice steak dinner with a new sense of clarity.
“So,” I began, “your friend tonight, the metal man. Who is he?” I asked.
Grimm just smiled at me.
I was really starting to not like the guy. I figured this was one of those moments I would just have to let go until the time came that my scowling sensei let me in on his secrets.
As we finished our meal, I cleaned up the plates and led Grimm back to my living area. We finished our scotch.
“I’ve had a long crazy night and I want some sleep. So I will ask you to see yourself out, as you already let yourself in. For now, let’s just say I am intrigued and I will consider the idea of whatever this is between you and me.”
“Excellent,” Grimm said. “I will be in touch very soon. I have a world to show you. One you have not seen, yet has existed before your eyes.”
“Yeah yeah. Less esoteric, and more sleep. Later Grimm,” I said with a forward sense of familiarity and held out my hand to shake goodbye. Grimm looked at me disdainfully, but took my hand. Then he literally melted away into mist and shadow.
********
The man known as Father Grimm stood amidst the ramshackle boomtown of Fallout Waste, outside Salem’s underground facility, in the predawn darkness. He walked a measured pace and distance until he came to an old husk of an ancient automobile. He reached into the debris and pulled out an archaic mobile communication device that operated on short-range burst technology. The device had been modified for extra spread encryption. Grimm powered on the device and squelched it in a rapid and deliberate pattern. A voice came over with a distinct eastern Slavic accent.
“Did work?”
“Yes, T. The gas from the liquid serum permeating from my robes had his mind at ease and he confessed a great many things. Especially after the severe blood loss.”
“Was right? Was nanite-based technology?” asked the voice known as “T.”
“Apparently so. Kurasawa-McMillan was the leading technology in nanite-based micro-robotics before G-Day. He admitted his father used a process on him which was meant for soldiers. He is definitely a cyborg, but with no visible augmentations or external modifications. He has amazing rapid cellular regeneration. Also, an odd case of pica.”
“Shto?”
“After I inflicted massive trauma on him, he blended metal, meat, and plastic into a beverage and consumed it.”
“Hmm. Yes. That follows theory. Base components for abstract neural net, relays, and augmentations. Da. Then what did you do?”
“He cooked me a steak dinner. Real steak, not synthetic.”
“Shto?” the Slavic voice asked. Then, the voice began laughing. “Ha ha ha!”
“What, T?”
“He cooked you dinner and ate after consumption of base materials?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Odlichno! I not know for sure, yer, I believe defensive systems kicked in. Assuming that since base was underground, there was ventilation shaft?”
“Yes.”
“Then his internal network system using hunger as automated response. Cleared gas from your potion.”
“Serum.”
“No pout your potion no work. New friend is capable individual. I very much looking forward to meeting. Oh, wait.” T paused. “Da. That would be interesting if did.”
“T, your mind is fascinating. However, please elaborate.”
“What are odds he smart enough to scrape dishes, glasses, silverware for DNA? Hmm? Unlock secrets of you? What if monitoring this conversation?”
“I considered that. He is capable, yes. And he has a deductive and inductive reasonable mind. Yet he seems a bit immature, and I do not think he has the savvy to think along those lines. Also, you did the encryption to these devices yourself. Therefore, I feel comfortable in the belief he is in the dark about this.”
“Don’t bet on it, asshole,” came Salem’s voice from the micro transmitter on Grimm’s cuff.
Looking down, Grimm found, removed, and destroyed
the transmitter. Grimm realized it must have been the final handshake before leaving when Salem planted the device. He was clever. Salem’s voice then squawked on the communications device.
“Oh, and I cracked this transmission in under a minute. Don’t mistake my messy bachelor pad as sign of a disorganized mind. I am sure I will learn interesting things from your DNA. T, it has been a pleasure eavesdropping on you. I am sorry for destroying your ants, but you did sic them on me. By the way, you are scary as fuck. Goodnight.”
“Hvala i Dovidjenja,” T said back.
Grimm fought the urge to smile. This Salem was full of surprises. Grimm had to admit he enjoyed the younger man’s tenacity and skill.
********
I switched off the comm link and walked back to the kitchen galley. I grabbed his plates, glasses and beer bottles and brought them all to my lab. Well, the lab. It was unfair to call it mine. I didn’t use it nearly as much as he did.
The lab was beyond the galley and down a level. It was as cutting-edge as you might expect. In a constant state of upgrade, it was filled with technological marvels. I understood about half of it.
“Activate Holo Protocol ‘Pater Familias,’ Authority ISAAC Alpha 17-9-7-5. Initiate tactile response,” I said to the lab’s main computer.
Multiple light sources lit up in a dazzling show. The beams moved faster and faster until a shimmering hologram of my father stood before me. A final wave of light seemed to make the image more “solid.” My father reached out and gave me hug.
“Son, I am so glad you are safe.” The holographic image of my father looked like he did in life. A tall man and thin, with typical scientist glasses, a large forehead and recessed blonde hair. He wore his lab coat and comfortable jeans and plaid shirt. But he had also been a businessman, and the look of a competent leader reflected in his computer-generated eyes.
“Appreciate the love, Dad, but could you take these dishes and such?”
“Oh.” My dad sobered up. “Yes, of course. I am assuming full DNA workup?”
“Yup. When you get something, let me know. I’m going to go crash for now.”
The holographic image of my father began scuttling about, getting to work. And I was tired. I began to leave the lab to get some quality rack time.
“Oh son,” the hologram began, “did you manage to slip a tracking device into his food?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Shame. It would have been nice to find out where he lives.”
“Oh, I plan on it.”
“How?” he asked.
“A device in his food has the chances of being chewed up, or being passed too quickly depending on his fiber intake. But a radioactive isotope, for example, in his oh-so-rare and expensive whiskey, would be absorbed into a system and last for days.” I smiled.
The holo image smiled. “How did you get so clever, son?”
“Practice, old man. Now get to work. I am going to beat the hell out of the sandman for a few hours.” With that, I made my way to my room.
My private chambers were just that, private. A section of the lair that was unplugged from the rest and could be used as a panic room if needed. No sensors here, no holo emitters. Just my bed and a few items that reminded me of the world long ago.
I flopped into my bed, exhausted, and reran the night’s events over and over. As I replayed everything, I keyed into one moment—the second wave of hunger. After the attack, I drank what I needed. But the second intense pang of hunger, I realized, was a warning from me to me.
Before passing out, I pulled out a portable standalone terminal. I powered it up and synched it to my personal internal signal. The system paired and I was in direct communication with The Collective, the nanites that ran my body’s routine functions while keeping a strict guard over my parietal, occipital, and temporal lobes.
//Greetings Host// came a synthesized voice.
Hiya, Collective. So, I wanted to say thank you for the warning. Getting behind the ventilated range to cook cleared my head and I stopped spilling my guts. I didn’t pick up on the gas he was using.
//GRATITUDE ACCEPTED Host - STATEMENT: We sensed the odorless vapor once it synthesized in the bloodstream - REQUEST: We petition again for a direct route to communicate TO Host//
I already talked to you about this, Collective. It is bad enough my dead parents can ride the signal into my head. I do not need my internal system having a direct link to my cognitive functions.
//REJECTION ACCEPTED Host - Disagreement proclaimed - REQUEST: Please continue to protect yourself - STATEMENT: We enjoy existence - REQUEST: Avoid further intentional electrocutions//
The link abruptly ended. I think the Collective was getting pissed with me. But that is for another time. Fuck Robert Frost. I had miles to go, but it was time for sleep.
Chapter Eight
Blood, Oil, Death, and Cordite
I awoke the next evening, having slept from sunrise to sunset. A hard night deserved the bliss of a miniature coma. I fumbled for my lighter and a pack of smokes, lit up, and then lay back into bed with my hands behind my head. I breathed in and out the gray menthol cloud and contemplated my next move.
My brain was beginning to fracture and tangent in a sea of “but”s and “what if”s. No. No deep thinking without my coffee. I put out my smoke and made my way to the galley after making a quick pit stop at the john. Nanite-infused system means less waste, but waste nonetheless.
An hour or so later I was sitting at my workbench with my third cup of coffee when my dad’s voice squawked over the lair’s intercom system.
“Son, I have the analysis done on Father Grimm’s DNA sampling.”
I reached over to the comm-box and opened the channel. “Great, Dad. Come on up and fill me in.” I switched the comm off, lit another smoke, and rubbed my eyes. The mini holo projectors in this section fired up and the 3D representation of my father coalesced opposite me.
“Hey Dad. So what did you find?” I asked the hologram.
“Oh, many many things, son.” My father’s voice was high and excited. He must have found something interesting to get all worked up. My father’s projection reached out to take my arm and the hologram passed through me as the light stopped on contact with the solid world. My father frowned.
“When are you going to install the tactile sub routines and hard light camera throughout the compound?” he asked. We’d had this argument many times before, and I didn’t want to start it up again. So I ran down the fast version.
“Dad, the parts are expensive and time-consuming to build, and to be honest, I don’t want you or Mom being able to interact in my living area. You will reorganize my crap, move my gear, and probably clean. You and Mom have access to the lab and the motor pool as well as the library, several storage depots, and the galley. You don’t need interaction up here.”
The holo image of my father looked sad and defeated. It was like kicking a digital puppy. He turned away and I went back to my coffee. An awkward few moments passed before either of us spoke again.
“Dad, I did, however, finish the portable one we had been talking about,” I told the image of my father.
“Really? When?”
“In my spare time. I don’t need to sleep much, you know.”
“Really? You just slept fourteen hours,” my digital dad mused.
“Yeah yeah, old man. I don’t usually. I don’t know. It could have been the street fight with the mechanical ants or the electrocution. Perhaps the stabbing and throat-slitting. I was pretty tuckered out, Dad.”
“I concede.” My dad held up his hands. “But had we had the hard light generators in your living area, then we could have helped prevent the attack versus just warning you.”
I glared at the hologram. “I thought you conceded?”
The image shrugged. The old businessman in him couldn’t let an angle go. He had me and I knew it. Dead over a century and a half and he was still taking me to school. Rather than pressing the issue, he changed th
e subject.
“Tell me more of the portable tactile holo generator.”
“It is still a prototype,” I answered, “and it requires one hell of a strong signal for your code to ride the carrier beams from the old SATCOMM network into my neural net. And the power supply is still weak. But it should give you limited tactile interaction outside of this place. The range is only a couple of meters from the source projector. But I think you will like it. Anyway, let’s get back to Father Grimm. What did you come up with?”
“Oh yes,” my electronic father began. “The DNA is fascinating. The structure and cells are perfect.”
“How old would you guess he is?” I asked.
“I couldn’t answer for sure. Tens of thousands of years? Based on the extreme delay of cell decay, he could be the oldest human on the planet.”
“Where is he from?” I asked. “What’s his genetic background?”
“That’s even crazier. His genetic markers—well, there aren’t any. He is every possible, conceivable race, and none of them, at the same time.”
“How’s that possible?”
“It isn’t!” My father said with so much excitement I expected his holo-projection to short out.
I pondered that for a bit. I guess Grimm really was telling the truth. But I needed more information.
“Dad, go ahead and head back to the lab, or switch off for a few hours, whatever you want to do. I have to head out tonight and dig up some answers. I will leave the neural relay on if you and Mom need to get in touch with me.”
“Sure thing, son. Good luck.” The image of my father blinked out.
I heard an 8-bit imitation of “Play that Funky Music” blare from my living area. I went over to my coffee table and grabbed my relic of a smartphone, an ARCHTech Vox75 series. A message from Jensen, letting me know he was at Dante’s already working and for me to come by to go over that information he had on Father Grimm. Also, for me to bring some more classic smokes. Who could blame him? Nothing beats the real thing. I rattled off a quick message letting him know I was on my way.
