Cynthia rode down with two Minors. At the bottom, four more Minors greeted them, and together they escorted her to a large terminal near the black Colossal Core. Cynthia put on a Mindlink, and—like she was striking flint to steel—the huge Core sparked to life. A thrum filled the room and rattled their teeth, but there was no coursing blue light.
She took off the Mindlink.
“What’s the problem?” one of the Minors asked.
“I need to boot up the MTs,” Cynthia said. The multi-thread CPUs were how the Colossal Core managed the individual data streams of its forty-million-plus users. The server field sat beneath the Core in a fog of heavy oxygen.
“Do it from here,” he said.
Cynthia frowned. “I have to go to the graveyard.”
“Hold on a second.”
The Minor communicated with up top. Evan crackled over the radio. “What’s going on?”
“The multi-thread CPUs, Evan. They’re down in the graveyard and I have to boot them up.”
“That’s not how it works,” he replied.
“It is when you’re covering your bases. I coded it out of the network, so no one other than me could ever turn it on. I have to manually do it with a password and eye scan. I was ready to die, Evan. I just couldn’t let others die for me.”
The radio crackled with fuzz. They were far underground. Finally: “Two of you go with her.”
The two Minors followed her to a side elevator. Five stories below, a thick, swirling fog covered the CPU “graveyard.” The heavy oxygen was cooled below minus-fifty degrees Celsius, and the fog was caused by the heating and cooling of the air as it touched the sinks on the CPU bays. In the early days, some techs had died from the extreme conditions where these trillion-dollar CPUs thrived.
The sliding doors opened—and before them stood a frost-covered grim reaper.
Sabot.
With shocking speed, Sabot threw his arm into the elevator and positioned himself between Cynthia and the bionics. He took up nearly the entire space, but there was room for his shotgun. Point-blank, he fired the 4-gauge into each of the Minors’ chests. They slammed against the wall and crumpled like marionettes cut from their strings.
He knelt down over Cynthia. She was curled up, covering her ears in pain from the shotgun report.
She read his lips. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” she screamed back. And then she kissed him.
He pulled her outside the elevator. Overhead he heard the Minors yelling and scrambling for position. He tucked her out of sight. “Stay here.” Alone, he rode the elevator back up.
Cynthia had designed Sabot to withstand rifle rounds, and when the elevator opened, Sabot didn’t try to evade. He just stepped out and took on fire. The rounds that peppered his armored, elastic shell fed him his opponents’ vectors. Two Minors stood oblique to the elevator doors, and a third lay prone, thirty yards in front. All were armed with 10mm submachine guns.
He turned right and fired. A Minor’s face sifted apart like a dropped snow cone. He aimed to his left and did the same, sending that Minor over the rail. The third Minor, the one prone and in front, retreated, and three others, farther away, attempted suppressive fire. They were too distant for Sabot to reach them with the shotgun, so he slung it over his back and pulled out an axe. He charged.
A puck flew toward him, and before he could cover, the EMP flash-bang seared his vision and triggered his auditory limiters. He stumbled into a Sleeper chair and crashed to the ground. The electromagnetic pulse disoriented him, and his attempt to stand back up failed. Bullets peppered his entire body; in his moment of blindness, the four Minors had circled him and were closing in.
He pushed himself up on his knees and then struggled to his feet. His vision scrolled and snowed, but he saw a silhouette approaching, jumping from Sleeper chair to Sleeper chair. Sabot lunged forward and threw the power of seven men into his swing.
The axe head dug past the spine and the Minor buckled, nearly cleaved in two, his weapon continuing to fire point-blank into Sabot. A blurry image of another Minor flanked him, this one without a gun. Sticky bomb. With all of his strength, Sabot swung the axe—complete with the other Minor—at the second assailant. When they connected, the sticky bomb detonated.
The impact threw Sabot across the floor, blowing through Sleeper chairs. His chest and face were scalded and smoking. One side of his mouth was torn open, revealing the prosthetic jaw and teeth. His nose was gone.
He had lost the axe. He stood up and pulled out his shotgun again. The two men that had attacked him were nothing but limbs and rags. The other two had retreated behind the Core, cornered. The elevator and the stairway were the only ways out, and the Samoan guarded both.
His circuitry had recovered. He could see and hear.
“I’m not going to chase you,” Sabot yelled. “Your weapons don’t work against me and there’s no way out. Do the smart thing and surrender.”
They didn’t respond. He heard movement.
The Core’s black void suddenly crackled to life. Like a blue vortex trapped in a bottle, it began to spin furiously, and then suddenly—with a machine gun chatter—it fired completely to life.
YOU DO NOT GET TO SURRENDER, Cynthia projected. Her voice filled Sabot’s head as if every cell could speak. He fell to his knees, grabbing his ears.
Sorry, Sabot.
The invasive sound left his head, and Sabot watched, confused, as the two Minors fell out into the open, clawing at their heads as if spiders had burrowed into their ears.
The elevator from the graveyard opened and Cynthia stepped out. She wore a portable Mindlink. The Minors stopped flailing and hung their heads, rocking side to side.
Cynthia walked past Sabot to one of the Sleeper chairs nearest the Core. A dozen monitors surrounded it, and one huge one loomed over the rest.
Sabot went to her. “What are you doing?”
She keyed in commands, and each monitor blinked and read: “Network initialization in progress.” A timer ticked down from sixty seconds. Seven of the monitors displayed continents.
I’m taking everything online. The Northern Star isn’t complete, and Evan can barely control it. Now’s our chance.
The two soldiers walked over to Sabot and saluted.
“Sir, we are now at your command,” they said in unison. Sabot recognized the cadence, if not the pitch.
“Is that you?” Sabot asked. The Minors smirked.
I’d never build something I can’t control, Sabot. They’re mine now.
“How?”
I’m controlling them with the open architecture that allows them to communicate with one another. It’s an override. No new Tank Minor or Major can turn it off.
He peered into the eyes of one, like it was a keyhole. “Where are they?”
“Inside their minds, screaming for a way out,” Cynthia said aloud, with an unnerving coldness. She lay down in the chair and put on a full-bandwidth Sleeper Mindlink. It shicked to the contact patches on her skull and her eyes dilated. The countdown reached zero.
On the roof of MindCorp headquarters, the tops of four blinking silos rotated open. A sound swirled from their blackened holes, and like a colony of bats, hover-rovers rushed out into the night sky. They had been modified for a single purpose.
The thousands of bionic soldiers below had no time to aim and fire. They had no time to flee. The wireless hack transmitted from the hover-rovers was faster than a bullet, and within a quarter second, every general-issue Tank Minor within a ten-mile radius was under the control of MindCorp. It took extra mind power to control their voices and faces, so Cynthia ignored that. Their bulletproof bodies and armament would do.
Chao was instructing two teams to enter the sewers when suddenly his own men attacked him. “What the hell?” he screamed, shrugging them off. They fired at him point-blank, tried to climb on him, drag him down.
“I don’t know what’s happening, sir!” one screamed. Chao threw him twenty yards, too
confused to kill. A cloud of hover-rovers roared down from above.
Retreat, Evan said. His voice was no longer brittle and distant. It was here. All Tank Majors, retreat!
Chao did just that. He ran through the Minors like a rhino, knocking them down and over. He came across dead Tank Majors, their helmets popped off, their brains spilled. Others were alive, but were spinning and thrashing, trying to rip off the Minors that covered their bodies. One Major was in Chao’s path, and Chao ducked a shoulder and knocked the Tank Major over. He tore the Minors off like weeds.
“What’s happening?” the Major screamed.
“Come on.”
Chao and the Tank Major helped whoever they could, and soon the pod of giants had grown to six. They fled the battle, blasting through one of the barricades and trampling through a mass of civilians too choked to move.
The Minors on the perimeter turned to the civilians and spoke. “This is Cynthia Revo. The United States and MindCorp are at war. It is no longer safe to be in Chicago. Please evacuate by rail out of the city. This is Cynthia Revo. The United States and MindCorp are at war. It is no longer safe to be in Chicago. Please evacuate by rail out of the city. . .” The message would repeat for hours.
And on the MindCorp campus, the “Revos”—the Minors now controlled by Cynthia—were doing something peculiar. Something that took great effort. A dozen to one, they were dragging the dead Tank Majors into their new base.
= = =
Raimey stood on the pier, searching for life among the glowing remains of the sinking ship. He saw nothing—bionics couldn’t swim. The last of the wreckage sizzled to smoke as the current ushered it below. He turned back to the city.
Boma was in mutiny. The workers, held against their will, revolted now that the Mort Vivant were dead. Bursts of gunfire echoed throughout the city.
Nearby, Raimey saw a group of armed men attempting to herd children into a large truck. Raimey promptly walked over and killed them.
The children glommed on to Raimey. He soon found an internment camp full of them. Some had been set aside in chain-link cages—they were the ones that had been sold. Men with guns stood guard, but when they saw Raimey, they ran. Men and women rushed out of the factories.
Juhavee rolled up in the M1. He popped the hatch. “We got them!”
“That was a hell of a shot,” Raimey said. Errant rounds ricocheted off Raimey as he spoke. Juhavee ducked out of sight inside the tank’s hatch, then cautiously peered over the lip.
“Is it safe?”
“Not especially.”
“Could you escort us? I’ll talk everyone down.”
Raimey guarded the Abrams as it went by the factories and canvassed the area, street by street. Juhavee announced that the Mort Vivant were dead, and that the people were free. Cheers filled the air and a crowd of people trailed the tank. It became a parade.
There were still soldiers in Boma that had followed the Mort Vivant. Raimey saw many of them beaten dead on the street. Some had barricaded themselves into buildings. Occasionally the parade came across a mob trying to break into a building to enact their own justice. It was vigilante law. There were no judges, there was no due process. Raimey would knock down the wall so that the mob could rush in. The parade moved on.
Dawn came. And in the rising light, Raimey was happy to see a familiar face. Vana was helping the children. She bowed to John and then clapped her hands. Raimey gave her a curt nod, but the gratefulness she projected was too much for his beaten soul. If he looked at her, he would cry. So he turned away and looked instead at the two massive ships still in port.
Vana and Juhavee spoke in French, and then she went off.
“There are more on that oil rig,” Juhavee said to Raimey. A mile offshore, the dishes on the strange oil rig rocked back and forth.
“I can’t help with that,” Raimey said. “There’s no way to get me on board.”
Juhavee looked up at the colossus. A skiff would surely submerge under only half his weight. Juhavee glanced back at the crowd. “The Mort Vivant are dead. We’ll find a way. Let’s get ahold of the Coalition.”
They made their way to the communication tower, and after breaking in, Juhavee contacted the American Coalition Command, based in Chicago. Juhavee stood on a table and raised the microphone as high as he could, toward John.
“This is Tank Major John Raimey. I am in Boma, Republic of Congo. I need to speak to General Boen.”
“Is this reinforcements? This is Charles Rivas, Private First Class!” The faint pop of gunfire came over the speaker. Juhavee and Raimey looked at each other.
“Private Rivas, I need to speak to General Boen,” Raimey repeated.
“General Boen is dead, sir.” The private’s voice was shaking.
It took Raimey a moment to find words. “He never leaves the base without escort.”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir, I was just told he’s dead! Can you send reinforcements?”
“Why do you need reinforcements?”
“We’re at war. MindCorp has taken over the Minors. They’re here now!”
More gunfire distorted the transmission.
“We’re trying to fight back.”
“What do you mean, ‘they’ve taken over the Minors’?” Raimey asked.
“THEY’RE THEIRS NOW! SHE CONTROLS THEM. SHE IS THEM. THEY’RE DESTROYING OUR BASE!” The private’s voice abruptly went from a scream to a whisper. “I can’t stay on, sir. They’re outside.”
The transmission dropped. Raimey stared at the speaker, waiting for Private Rivas to come back. He didn’t.
“My daughter is in Chicago,” Raimey said. “She works at the Derik Building. It’s where they build the bionics.”
Juhavee looked out a barred window at the two cargo ships moored to the pier. “Then you better go.”
Part II
“Even psychopaths have emotions if you dig deep enough. But then again, maybe they don’t.”
—Richard Ramirez
Chapter 9
Charles had never come home. Over a week had passed since Nikko had heard the first gunshots that started the war, and they hadn’t stopped since. Day and night, crowds rushed out of the city by train and by foot. But Grandma couldn’t. The neighbors they knew had already left, and Nikko wasn’t strong enough to help her.
“Tengo hambre,” Nikko’s grandma said. Days ago they had run out of food. They still had water. “Tengo hambre, Nikko,” his grandma said again.
Nikko held her hand. Nikko could survive a few days without a meal; he was used to it. He pulled long shifts online all the time. But Grandma was almost eighty. Any endurance she’d once possessed had flittered away with the passing years.
“I’ll get us something to eat,” Nikko said. He didn’t know where he could go. Most food was delivered, and the few corner stores in the neighborhood had certainly been looted by now. Nikko decided his best bet was the other apartments in the area. Most would be abandoned by now, and maybe he’d get lucky. If he was real lucky, maybe someone would help him with Grandma, and they could get out of the city.
He went into Charles’s room and found one of his Army duffel bags in the closet. Then he opened the bedside table and found the handgun that his brother told him to “never fucking touch.” He flicked the safety on and off to make sure he knew how, then put the weapon in the bag. He kissed Grandma goodbye and said he’d be back soon.
In the alley behind their apartment, he opened the dumpster and pulled out his neon green bike. The boom of artillery echoed from downtown, and suddenly Nikko’s legs were frozen.
“You don’t need to go far,” he said to himself.
He heard a group of people yelling and hooting. He pressed against the dumpster and waited as a gang of young men and women ran past. They didn’t look down the alley.
“Grandma needs you,” Nikko said. “If you don’t do this, she’ll starve.”
Charles would never leave them alone this long. Charles is dead, a voic
e whispered in his head. Nikko grimaced at the likelihood. I want to be online! I want to fight dragons! But the real world would not be ignored now, even if the virtual one promised numbing solace.
Maybe this is a game, Nikko thought. Who could tell anymore? Maybe Charles would pull the Mindlink off him after he completed this challenge, tell him to get ready for dinner. That was easier to stomach. Because then he was Raul the Sinister, and he had no fear.
Nikko almost got himself to believe it, too, as he pedaled off to war.
= = =
The civilians which Cynthia had so grandly expected to rise against the government—had not. They were five generations past any meaningful war, fat, mentally soft and coddled and expectant. Bravery had been replaced by gluttony. A third of the city had immediately left when Cynthia had announced the war, and the two-thirds that had stayed had expected the conflict to pass over like a thunderstorm.
The thousands of Minors under Cynthia’s control were dead or dying. She and Sabot were connected, and he could feel her anguish at their loss. She didn’t want to cause death. On one aircraft carrier, the soft soldiers had run the bionics off the deck and into the sea. Every Tank Minor’s oxygen was buffered—in case of chemical attack—and Cynthia couldn’t fathom the fear those bionics must have felt as they sank into the deep. They would last too long; they would have too much time to think. Maybe they’d even reach the bottom, or see the glow of a creature built for the depths as they slipped past to their anonymous graves. She had raped these men of their free will, moved them against their colleagues. It would have taken too many network resources to control their faces, their voices, so even as the bionics attacked, they screamed for help. As grenades exploded around them, they hollered for mercy. As they crushed the life out of friends, they apologized until the end.
Men and boys built for war
To the End, is where they go
The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition Page 53
