The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by Mike Gullickson

  = = =

  Cynthia Revo flowed through the black of cyberspace as quick as a ray of light. At MindCorp headquarters she was a petite redhead, but here, like the other Sleepers that managed the threads that created her universe, her consciousness manifested as an opaque teardrop dragging behind it a tangle of tails. Some had speculated the form was tangible thought. Others had guessed it was our unfettered soul. It was one of many mysteries that the public would never know.

  I’m approaching the Data Sump, she thought, and so she said. She had built cyberspace with x, y, and z coordinates, even in what would be thought of as “space.” But ahead, she sensed a resistance, and in this lay the mystery. Where the physical connection of the Data Sump met the sea of cyberspace, there was a hole. Calling it a void would do no good: a void was empty. But this hole led somewhere, and for a brief moment, it had taken over the Data Sump, killing three of the ten Sleepers at that location in the process.

  Jeremiah Sabot was her lover and bodyguard. He was mixed race—half-black, half-Samoan—barrel-chested, and six-foot-five. He used to weight three hundred pounds; he now weighed over five hundred. Sabot was a Tank Minor of Cynthia’s design, and in some ways the massive man, thick and dreaded, had become her earthly avatar. What he heard, she heard. What he felt, she felt.

  So when he went onsite to the Data Sump outside Chicago and saw the vacant stare of the dead but breathing, so did she. And still she rushed toward the inexplicable, because she had to know. Beyond her trillions, beyond her global power, she was a scientist first, and within that discipline, truth and discovery were more important than failure. These rips forming in the digital universe bothered her, and of course the dozen MindCorp Sleepers that had died in the last three months worried her; but what ate her alive was not knowing why.

  She slammed against the anomaly, effectively decelerating from light speed to zero in less than a nanometer. It held no data; she couldn’t pass.

  Sabot, why is it still offline? Normally Cynthia could control every Data Core around the world from her headquarters, but the event that happened here had resulted in the equivalent of a cut cord.

  “No one will connect in to turn it on,” Sabot said. She could see the Director of the Data Sump through his eyes.

  “All the Sleepers are under medical surveillance,” she heard the man say. “This isn’t the first time, is it? I heard this happened overseas.” Sabot glanced past him to the doctors attending to the sullen, skinny programmers who spent most of their days in a trance. Some were crying.

  Someone has to do it, Cynthia projected.

  “Could you connect through me and do it?” Sabot asked.

  Yes.

  Sabot went to a Sleeper chair. The Director disconnected the unrestricted Mindlink that Sleepers wore and in its place attached an administrator Mindlink, similar to a consumer’s. Sabot put it on.

  “I’m in,” Sabot said. Immediately, he felt Cynthia’s presence flow over his own. Initially it was warm, like a body, and then, just as quickly, it was a riptide, drowning him out of his consciousness. His senses were taken from him, his memories were plucked free, and, for a moment, he was life with awareness, but no identity.

  RUNG-RUNG. An enormous noise. The Data Core behind him turned over like an engine, sparking blue.

  Data was transmitted around the ring, Cynthia observed. To Sabot, her casual insight felt more like a stroke.

  Quickly, Cynthia. Pain . . . No need to say it aloud; they shared a brain.

  RUNG-RUNG. RUNG-RUNG. Blue in the huge tube, sparking and tumbling.

  RUNG-RUNG. BRRRRRRRRR. The Data Core fired up.

  Cynthia slithered out of his skull and Sabot tore the Mindlink off his head. The Data Core churned its blue. Server fields blinked as they reset. Far above Sabot, the giant microwave dish ground and clattered as it chased a ring of satellites across the night sky.

  For Cynthia, what had moments before held no data was now full of it. The tear vanished as the Data Sump went about its task, pushing and pulling 0’s and 1’s.

  A meteor shower of voices filled her head. Cynthia summoned all of them, and as she did, her mindscape—a Sleeper’s ability to manipulate their surroundings—fluttered outward in misty green waves. The voices were all her own.

  Ten years before, the U.S. and China went to war over the King Sleeper, a child prodigy so powerful online that he could manipulate minds, disrupt economies, and even kill. He was lost in the war, but the data collected to understand what made him so powerful produced amazing technological leaps. One of the most used was the MIME CPU. These computers mimicked their host’s thoughts and decision-making processes, and only queried the host when a pattern or problem fell outside the AI profile. They were the whispers, prodding their masters, guiding them. With MIMEs, one consciousness—like Cynthia’s—was multiplied into thousands.

  But this ability came with a cost: the Sleepers that used MIMEs developed dissociative behavior and depression when they were cut off. When schizophrenia had become normal, one voice seemed a lonely chorus.

  The Northern Star, a MIME whispered.

  Where does that come from? Why do you say that? Cynthia demanded.

  The MIMEs held their tongues. They sifted through petaflops of data and came back with a flat line. She could feel their cycles spinning.

  The Northern Star. A few weeks ago, when the same event occurred in China, one MIME of the thousands Cynthia put to task had come back with that same phrase. It had spit out of the MIME like a malfunction. On inquiry, the same response occurred, as if the MIMEs were shielding her from some inevitable reveal. All MIMEs on it, yet nothing. Not a tail, not a speck of data.

  Sabot, hook up one of the comatose Sleepers.

  She felt Sabot’s disapproval.

  Do it.

  She saw Sabot push the Director, protesting, out of the way. The other Sleepers watched in horror as Sabot wheeled a young woman over to a Sleeper chair and put the Mindlink on her head. She heard Sabot growl, “It may help.”

  The MIMEs went about their work, combining processing power with intuition as they probed the young woman who could not be reached by any other means.

  Immersion, one of them came back.

  Immersion, another said.

  -Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion- Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion- Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion- Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immersion-Immers—

  Cynthia shut down the inquiry. And then she heard it, and she realized she heard it through Sabot’s ears. The woman whispered, as quietly as a dying breath: “The Northern Star.”

  = = =

  Twenty minutes later, Sabot watched as a caravan of ambulances took the Sleepers away. It was so quiet this far out. The Data Sump—a massive microwave dish that rose eight stories into the air—was outside a reclaimed park that used to be a part of a suburb called Naperville. It was a component of UNITY, a satellite ring that provided latent-free digital transmission across the globe. The last satellite had gone up just weeks prior, and for the first time in human history, once UNITY was fully online and united with the terrestrial network, the entire world would be perfectly, instantaneously linked: without firewalls, without gates, a seamless unity that would make cyberspace whole. It would give everyone in the world a fair shake. There would be no privilege.

  And the Coalition, who had supported UNITY since its infancy, was now mysteriously turning against it.

  Sabot grimaced. Politicians. Lies with a smile. Snakes who have mastered the appearance of empathy.

  “We’re ready,” a technician transmitted to him.

  Sabot could feel Cynthia in his head. Although she was laid out at MindCorp headquarters, unconscious to the physical world, his eyes were hers.

  Do—
she started.

  “—it,” he finished.

  A deep vibration shook the earth, and the fifty-yard-diameter dish raised its head. RRRRR. RRRRR. The noise was deafening. RA-RA-RA-RA-RA, RA-RA-RA-RA-RA. The dish pivoted back and forth, chasing the invisible satellites high above.

  “Geese,” the technician transmitted.

  A ‘V’ of geese flew a mile overhead across the Data Thrower’s path. They burst into flames and spiraled to the ground like comets.

  Sabot whistled. “Good thing there aren’t any planes.”

  A lanky black man in his early twenties approached Sabot. He wore a dark suit with his pants too low. “You okay?”

  “No. Mosley, pull your damn pants up,” Sabot replied.

  As they walked back to the car, Mosley readjusted his pants and tucked in his shirt. Behind them the Data Sump chattered and ground as the dish swung back and forth, scorching the air with a constant microwave of data. Mosley opened the door for his uncle.

  Sabot glanced back at the massive dish. There were hundreds of these, in various states of assembly, all around the world. The need for oil had been replaced by the need for rare earth metals to build CPUs, circuit boards, and memory. UNITY, the Data Cores, and now the Data Sumps—they took massive amounts of material to build. The undertaking to finish this network had been all-consuming. And for some reason, this part of the network was failing. He didn’t think those Sleepers would ever come back.

  Sabot sighed and got into the car. They headed back to the city.

  -South Africa-

  Razal sat sprawled on a chair. A fan spun lazily overhead. The door opened and General Boen walked in, a report in his hand. He dropped it on the desk and sat down.

  “I’d love to link into this base one day and find that you’re not here,” Boen said.

  Razal pointed to the document. “I don’t know what more to say. You have to pull him. He’s unfit.”

  “You know what he’s been through. You know my history with him.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s why I’d think you’d do something.”

  “Careful.”

  Razal shrugged. Boen settled down. “What was it this time?”

  “At Walvis Bay he went completely off mission to protect some kids.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad.”

  “The insertion team got shot up because of it.”

  “Any deaths?”

  “No, but half the guys needed new bodies.” Razal leaned forward. “You don’t have to be a psychologist to diagnose him. All the time in my ear, he’s talking to his wife. All the time. I have to interrupt him to point out threats.”

  “The stress Tank Majors are under is different from what normal infantry deal with. They’re always reminded—”

  “Monster Syndrome. I know. But the other ones have maintenance programs that clean up their memories. Raimey’s are just one pile of shit stacked on another.”

  Boen ran his hands through his crop top. “He won’t see a shrink, and we can’t make him.”

  “How does that help me?”

  “You two are an incredibly effective spotter/Major pair.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Bet your ass it is,” Boen corrected. “We’re spread thin here. Who else would you rather work with when backup takes a half-day to reach you? Two Tank Majors aren’t as effective as Raimey.”

  “Then why aren’t there more of him?”

  “The same reason.” Boen stared off as he pulled information. “You’re Level 2, right? You can’t go higher because of a potential brain aneurism. You have to spot. I can’t reassign you into a six-man team.”

  Razal blew air. “I know.”

  “You guys don’t have to be buddies. You just need to get the job done. And you’re doing it.”

  “Have you talked to him lately?”

  Boen shook his head. “He has a closed system. He can’t link in.”

  “That’s not why,” Razal said.

  Boen just stared at him. Razal backed down.

  “You need to do something, man. His daughter’s around, right?”

  “She won’t speak to him.”

  “Something.”

  Boen rubbed his face with his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Razal was semi-satisfied.

  “But in the meantime—” Boen started.

  “Shit,” Razal said.

  “I just transmitted coordinates. Two Tank Majors haven’t communicated to the EU HQ in twenty-four hours. They were guarding a mining/smelt operation one hundred clicks southwest of Boma for shipment. You’re flying out as soon as they get John prepped.”

  Before Razal could reply, Boen took off the Mindlink, and the sweltering office designed to mimic South Africa’s summer heat was replaced with his air-conditioned suite on base in Chicago. He sat quietly, thinking about Raimey. Was he relieved that John was in Africa?

  He immediately called bullshit on himself for even asking that question, and the truth burnt his ears with shame. Of course he was. Raimey was a thirteen-foot-tall, six-ton reminder of his failure as both mentor and commanding officer. Earl always thought of himself as a man who hung his identity on integrity, and Raimey was a picketed protest outside his window, saying, “Where was your integrity when I needed a friend?”

  “What kind of man am I?” Boen asked. It wasn’t damning, it wasn’t rhetorical, it was a sincere question. Each day we can choose change. He knew who he had been. But who was he today? Who did he want to be? Too many people hang their past good deeds on their chests like medals, while in the present they’re just withered husks of the heroes they once were. Boen didn’t want to be one of those people.

  He pressed a button on his desk. “Wilkes?”

  “Yes, sir,” a voice replied over the intercom.

  “Can you call the Derik Building and see if Vanessa Raimey is in?”

  “Will do.”

  Maybe he could still make amends.

  = = =

  Vanessa Raimey hung up the phone, surprised to hear that General Boen was planning to stop by.

  “Who was that?” asked Bethany, a thick, black nurse in her forties.

  “My dad’s boss, Mr. Boen,” Vanessa said. She pursed her lips, curious. A loop of silver pierced the bottom one, and a row of studs ran over her eyebrow. Tattoo sleeves ran down her arms, and one just curled out of her scrubs touching her right ear. Dark, wavy hair hid others. “He’s coming over.”

  “General Boen?” Bethany said, whistling. “Look at you with your important friends . . .”

  The sound of a buzzer interrupted Bethany’s tease. Vanessa slapped the call button on her desk and rubbed her temples. “What’s the point of having important friends if I have to deal with him?”

  “They’re almost out, right?” Bethany said, looking at a wall display that read: A. Kove/E. Chao, Culling Recovery. “Alan is sorta sweet.”

  Vanessa tied her hair back and stood up. “Bethany, he’s sweet because he wants medication. Dr. Rafayko said he’s full-blown alkie.”

  “No way. I didn’t see anything in his file.”

  Vanessa shrugged. “He’s one of Evan’s. I guessed it slipped through the cracks.”

  The buzzer rang again: Vanessa closed a fist as if she was about to punch it.

  “Tomorrow we won’t have to deal with them anymore. They’re going up to three, four, then out the door,” Bethany said. She started down the hall.

  “Wait, you’re coming, right?” Vanessa asked.

  “They didn’t buzz my desk.”

  “You’re such a bitch!”

  Bethany swayed her hips as she disappeared around the corner. “Happy birthday!”

  Vanessa shook her head and took the stairs up to the second floor, where the culling took place. It had a surgery side and a recovery side. The “Twins” had been in recovery for seven days. Tomorrow they were being transferred to the third floor for build-out. The basement was for testing.

  When Vanessa’s father
vanished into the military and her mother shriveled to death from cancer, Dr. Evan Lindo had championed her. He’d pushed her academically; he’d pushed her technically. She’d graduated high school early, graduated college with a psych degree by nineteen, and was now already well on her way to a Masters degree in the same field.

  Evan had appointed her as the “psych liaison.” She handled the introduction of all candidates into the bionics program, she monitored and comforted those in the process of culling—where their identities were the most fragile—and she reported and consulted with the head psychologists when any red flags popped up, outside of the scheduled psych tests and appointments. In short, any time a soldier was getting cut down into conscious tissue, she was there with an open ear, a ready smile, and a soothing voice.

  The culling floor was more sterile and protected than a neonatal unit. Vanessa stepped through heavy rubber curtains into a decontamination zone and donned a full-body suit. She hit a button and a red light blinked for five seconds, then she was doused with a white, microbe-killing smoke. After the smoke was sucked out of the room, the interior door unlocked. She stepped through and proceeded to room 203.

  At the entrance to the room, a digital display read: A. Kove/E. Chao. Usually there were eight soldiers to a room, but Kove and Chao were being processed for a cutting-edge Tank Major design unlike anything before it.

  The process to become a bionic was brutal. The first Tank Majors were castrated, their arms and legs removed, their spines shortened, and still what happened to them was gentle compared to what happened to Tank Minors—and now, to Alan Kove and Edward Chao.

  The lights were dim, but she could still see the gleam of their wet skulls. Their skin had been pulled back to insert armor plating. Alan Kove was closest, and asleep; his breath was the whisper of a newborn, enough for Vanessa to check the monitors to make sure he was fine.

  “Vanessa?” Edward Chao. The voice came from over the partition.

  “Yes?” She was mad that she had to deal with this on her birthday, and wholly aware how childish it was to feel that way . . . and how it annoyed her anyway. If it were anyone else, she wouldn’t have minded. She liked her job. She liked the people that had come through. But Chao was rotten. Vanessa used to think that everyone had at least one redeeming quality, but that was before she met Chao. Maybe a psychotherapist could dig into Chao’s mind and learn that he tithes half his salary to feed orphans in India, but she doubted it. Some people were just mean. And at some point, the root cause was irrelevant.