Emergence (A DRMR Novel Book 2)

by Michael Patrick Hicks

  “Oh, come now. You make it sound terribly crude. We couldn’t risk this technology going mainstream. Yes, we tracked down the carriers of Alice’s data packets and began eliminating them. Unfortunately, other memorialists began picking up their mems, and we were forced to expand our efforts at containment.”

  “You brutally murdered dozens of people.”

  “They were complicit, regardless of their cognizance or lack thereof. They were infringing on corporate technology and the theft of proprietary information. Alice gave them the keys to body-shifting. There is no way we could risk that information getting loose. What if it went rogue? Do you know what kind of disaster this would be? Our hands were tied.”

  “All because Daedalus would look bad if word got out.”

  Schaeffer shrugged. “It would be a PR nightmare.”

  “I’m not getting out of here alive, am I?” Jade asked.

  “You’re very astute,” Schaeffer said.

  Jade slumped in her chair. Her earlier conversation with the suit made more sense. These conversations, the torture, establishing a baseline—they’d been reading her chemical reactions, creating statistical analysis of behavior and emotion. The baseline was for something Schaeffer had called a proof of concept.

  Observing the frail old woman, she began to get an inkling of what that concept was. “That’s how you’re going to get Mesa, isn’t it?” she asked. “By doing to me what you did to her. You’re going to destroy my mind and put somebody else in charge of my body.”

  “As I said, Jade, you’re very astute.”

  Standing, Schaeffer stared down at the two women. “I’ll leave you two for now. Alice, if you want, you can say your goodbyes now.”

  Chapter 14

  The interior of the H6 was an oven. When Mesa pried open her gummy eyelids, she was sweating profusely, and her mouth was completely parched. She put one hand on the too-hot steering wheel to help peel herself away from the seatback. She’d sweated through her blood-stained pants, and her legs were glued to the seat. Her whole body was a catalogue of bruises, pain, and suffering.

  After twenty minutes of idling, the vehicle’s battery-saving measures had kicked in and turned off the car. She’d been too exhausted to notice and was lucky she hadn’t baked to death. She rebooted the Humvee, grateful for the battery’s charge and the one minor miracle in recent days. The AC belched out a blast of hot air, but in a few minutes, it would start running cool.

  She opened the door—the desert heat was a pleasant chill in comparison to the sweat box—and stood. Her knee and shoulder were still severely damaged. Her arm was immobile, and the knee couldn’t take her weight. She needed protein, something to help kickstart the medichines and give them the necessary oomph to work harder. Beyond that, she desperately needed food and water. She’d tossed up the previous night’s dinner, and she was severely dehydrated from vomiting, blood loss, and having sweated out her body’s liquid reserves.

  She pressed a hand to the side of the Humvee, using the behemoth for support as she limped toward the back hatch.

  When the hatch lifted, she was caught with another blast of hot air. Turning, she rested her butt on the edge of the hatch then scooted inside.

  For the cargo of a paramilitary hit squad, it was about what she’d expected and, in some respects, hoped for. She shoved herself toward a communications bank and rested against the console before hauling herself into the chair. The old-fashioned piece was redundant to the standard comm packs she was sure the soldiers had been installed with, particularly since the comm packs were a common enough commercial unit and a basic DRMR app. A physical comm unit, though, would tie them down to a particular place at a particular time and risk generating a feedback trace. Using that tech was risky, maybe, but it also made the evidence easy to walk away from and provided a level of disconnect between hardware and operator. In the end, she decided it was pretty smart.

  She found guns, of course—all sorts of guns. She recognized the Glock sidearms, the H&K automatics, the Mossberg shotguns, all safety-clipped and secured to the wall, all unloaded. Good precaution. Wouldn’t want to hit a bump and accidently blow off the back of your skull. Beneath the weapons racks was ammunition for each weapon.

  Opposite the artillery were the provisions she’d been hoping for. One bin held bottles of water, and another held brown envelopes she identified as MREs. She peeled open the zein packets, fished out the heater envelope, and filled that to the marked line with the bottle of water. She was pleasantly surprised to see that the entrée she had grabbed was pork rib. She dropped the entrée envelope into the flameless ration heater. The chemical pack was already turning the water warm, and she propped it up against the comm relays.

  She’d never had an MRE before, but after the first bite, she learned why the pre-packaged food had earned its nicknames. Some called them “Meals Rejected by Ethiopians” or “Meals, Rarely Edible.”

  Her rumbling stomach reminded her she was in no position to be choosy and that the packets of food were a veritable banquet. She ate the pork then moved on to the crackers and peanut butter. She washed those down with water, finishing the bottle. She cracked open another bottle and mixed in the instant coffee. Stomach still growling, she finished the HOOAH! Bar in several large bites.

  The twelve-hundred-calorie meal would help boost the medichines. In another day or two, she would be able to walk normally. The shoulder, though… that was going to take some time.

  She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves for what came next. At waist level, flush with the comm area, was a drawer with a Red Cross logo on it. She fished out the combat tactical first-aid pack and rested it before her. A small mirror was built into the interior of the lid, and she had to play with the angle until it was just right.

  Very slowly, she peeled back her ruined shirtsleeve. The fabric was shredded, pressed into the pulpy flesh below, and scabbed over. She whined to herself as she pulled, working the shirt loose and pulling it over her head then down and away from all the damage.

  A chunk of shoulder was completely gone. The collarbone and the flesh above her breast were brutal affairs. The skin was raw ground meat, and she could see flecks of bone amid the globs of yellow subcutaneous fat. Light glinted off slivers and chunks of metal buried in the oozing wound.

  The medichines would take a long time to break down the metals. She needed to heal sooner rather than later and get her arm back together.

  The kit included a small needle and a jar of Novocain. She filled the syringe, clamped the plastic MRE spoon between her teeth, and bit down. Through her nose, she took a long pull of air, held it—then stabbed the needle into her ruined shoulder. She screamed around the spoon, and her eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. She pushed the plunger down, sending an icy crawl creeping slowly into the skin. She withdrew the needle. Her hand was shaking hard, and she dropped the syringe.

  She’d bitten the spoon in half, and she spit both ends of the utensil onto the table. She extracted the Kelly forceps and unwrapped them from the sterile packaging. Tears ran freely down her face and mixed with rivulets of sweat.

  She adjusted the mirror again, angling it to make it easier to spot the metal shards. Between the metal prongs of the forceps, she gripped the splintery shards and pulled. The metal was barbed on both sides, similar to a bee’s stinger, and it tore open the pulverized flesh. The Novocain reduced the pain down to a very unpleasant plucking sensation, and she moved on.

  Slowly, methodically, she extracted six more fragments then used a wad of gauze to blot away the fresh streaks of blood, wincing beneath each dab. She lifted the box, held it open, and used the mirror to explore the wound. The back of her shoulder was even worse—the rounds had expanded under the force of propulsion, and the shards that had traveled through her body had created larger exit wounds. All in all, the wound was nasty, a
nd she was lucky to be alive and that her arm hadn’t been blown off entirely.

  She saw the tails of more metal shards in her breastbone and the area below her collarbone. Kaften’s shot had hit her high, sparing her life by inches. She could have lost her head as easily as the arm. The pain and shock had been so terrible, she was only just noticing the barbs caught in the side of her neck. They were painful little pricks, but they’d merely dug shallow trenches.

  After unscrewing the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, she dumped the cold liquid across the ground-up meat, down her scraped arm, and over her neck, letting it wash down her bare chest and across her belly, not caring about the waste. There were other kits, which she hoped she wouldn’t need.

  She realized that, at some point, the car had entered power-saving mode and turned itself off again. That little bit of air conditioning she’d felt had been a welcome reprieve, but she knew she had to be conscientious about saving the vehicle’s battery life.

  Exhausted and nauseated, she riffled through the storage bins surrounding her. She was good on water and MREs for at least two weeks. By the third row of bins, she hit the jackpot and found black cargo pants and a black tee. Both were too big for her, but a utility belt cinched the waist of the pants enough to loosely hang on her hips.

  She sat down for a second meal, paying more attention to the selections than she had last time. After spending a minute digging around, her stomach making crazy loops and spasms for attention, she felt brave enough to try the pork sausage and gravy.

  Satiated and searing with agony as the Novocain wore off, Mesa felt ready to get down to business.

  You knew that man. Kaften, Mesa said.

  I did. Alice’s response came without delay, and Mesa had recognized her ethereal presence clouding her mind all the while.

  How?

  It’s a very long story.

  Well, you seem to be very stuck in my skull, and I think we have time. So, spill.

  Mesa caught the ghost of a sigh as Alice prepared to speak.

  He’s a private military contractor. Most of his work is for Daedalus. After the PRC invaded California, Daedalus was among the first corporations to extend an olive branch and work to ease relations. They were not shy about profiteering the region and getting in on the ground floor of the reconstruction efforts. Not all were in favor, and among some, any peace offerings toward the PRC were considered an affront.

  They contacted me, Alice continued, using Kaften as a go-between. He was charged with eliminating what little remained of American hostilities in the Los Angeles region, and I provided him with weapons and access.

  How do they know about you? Mesa asked. About us, I mean. Or, whatever this is. Why are they after me?

  I don’t know.

  You sure about that?

  What I mean is, there could be any number of reasons, really. I have theories.

  OK, and? Let’s hear it.

  Mesa could practically feel the rushing breath of another one of Alice’s sighs inside her brain.

  How long have you been operating REMIND?

  The question caught Mesa off-guard, zipping at her from left field. What does that have to do with anything?

  REMIND is a DARPA project, but much of the research was conducted through university research and project grants. Daedalus has extensive governmental contracts and is among the top-ranked funding agencies for university research programs. In a round-about way, Daedalus is as responsible for REMIND as DARPA is.

  What are you saying? They’re spying on me through a psychiatric app?

  More or less, yes. You freely update it with your brain impressions and meet regularly with a virtual counselor, don’t you? Where do you think all that information goes? Everything you do is watched, monitored, recorded. You’re a memorialist—you know this. You cannot possibly be that surprised that you’re being watched. You live under a constant state of surveillance. This is what you have embraced with your life, and you make it so goddamn simple for them.

  Mesa felt a swell of indignation rising inside herself. If it upsets you that much, you’re free to leave.

  Alice was contritely silent for a long moment while Mesa stewed.

  It’s as much my fault as it is yours, Alice said. In the end, it’s my own hubris that has led to this.

  What do we do about all this, then? Mesa asked, hardly believing that she was seeking the psychotic’s input. But, really, she didn’t see any other choice.

  She unzipped the backpack, balancing the bag in her lap. She pulled out the contents one by one, taking inventory. The clothes all went into a pile, to be abandoned. The gun, ammo, and a pack of stale cigarettes, she lined up on ledge of the comm center.

  You wanted to go on the offensive earlier. That’s what you told Kaizhou.

  Hearing his name come from Xie’s lips was a brutal gut punch. She’d been focused on avoiding thoughts of him, of accepting his death even after having witnessed his harsh death.

  You don’t get to say his name, Mesa said.

  Do you want to avenge him, Mesa? Do you want to go after the people who have set all this in motion?

  “You did this! You set all this in motion.” Mesa railed against the intruder in her mind, screaming out loud in the back of the Humvee. She upended the bag, scattering its contents across the comm terminal. She violently swept her arm through the clutter, flinging ammo clips and currency.

  You fucking did this to me! You killed my father! You killed Kaizhou! And Sri, and Ashita. Do you hear me? You did all of this. You fucking killed me! Mesa let her anger crash over Alice Xie, unsure whether she was shouting at the woman solely in her head or out loud.

  You ruined my life. Do you understand that at all? You destroyed my mind, and then you fucking show up out of nowhere like this is all OK? Like you have any right to me at all? You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. She fell back against the padded chair, exhausted. Beyond exhausted.

  After a long, quiet moment, she asked, What did you do to me?

  She thought Alice was going to ignore the question, but then a crippling flood of memories washed over her hippocampus, breaking through the mental dam that divided her from Alice and splintering her mind.

  Alice showed her everything, all of her memories, giving shape and form to Mesa’s nightmares.

  I couldn’t have done it without your father’s help, Mesa. Jonah made all this possible.

  Mesa’s stomached heaved, as if the entire organ wanted to rip free and escape the escalating madness. But she saw the essential truth behind Alice’s thoughts: Jonah had killed for Alice and provided her with the memories of a dead man, who made the horrors of body-shifting possible.

  And then he killed me, Alice said.

  Good, Mesa replied, but the fight had been sapped from her.

  Her fingers curled tightly around the fabric of the bag, and she twisted in the seat, turning away from the first-aid mirror. All she saw was an upturned and broken reflection that meant nothing anymore.

  Then she saw the small black storage drive. She drove it into the port behind her ear. The kill stick initialized, and the menu prompts displayed across her retina display. DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED? YES or NO.

  Mesa considered Alice one last time and thought of Jonah choking her to death. Mesa was oddly proud of the man, even if she’d never truly known him. She said to Alice, Now it’s my turn, you sonofabitch.

  She gave a mental push.

  YES.

  Chapter 15

  Jade’s fingers curled around the old woman’s hands. She studied the faint streaks of purple bruising on either side of Alice’s face. Much darker, nearly black bruising splotched the backs of her hands and crooks of her elbows. Jade wondered how many injections they were giving her and what kind of cocktails they were jamming in
to her when they rotated the needles across her body to avoid collapsing a vein.

  The marks on her face were not from needles, though. Among the freshest scoring, she could make out the ghost of an open hand.

  Curious, she pulled the blanket away from the old woman, her breath hitching in her throat.

  One of Alice’s legs was missing, amputated just above the knee. Three toes had been removed from her remaining foot, the injuries recent and inflamed with infection. Her shin was badly bruised, the knee a swollen black ball.

  Jade lifted the hem of Alice’s gown. The electronic translator made an odd warble that prompted Jade to glance up in time to see a trail of tears run down the craggy valley of the old woman’s face. The rough thought-to-voice module was telling her “no.” But Jade had already gotten a glimpse of deep purple finger marks on the older woman’s thighs, and she pressed on despite the tears, protests, and embarrassment.

  Alice’s chest was a warzone of scars and swollen, discolored tissue. Her stomach, distended and battered, resembled a cut of raw beef. A long, thick stretch of deep blue was haloed by a greenish ring that faded to yellow at its margins. Her chest rose with a hitch as she took each stuttered breath, and Jade concluded that the woman had multiple broken ribs.

  Upon being brought to the room, Jade had clung to the delusion that she was to say goodbye to her old mentor because, it seemed, Alice was plainly near death. But, as she learned more about Schaeffer, she knew she was merely another instrument of torment, the hours of Alice’s life, as she had known it, fleeting and nearing their end.

  “Why are they doing this you?” Her voice was still husky from her own torture, but even those memories were fleeting.

  “Because they can,” Alice said through the voice synthesizer’s rough and edgy approximation of human vocals. “To punish me. To glean every last drop of information. To humiliate me, degrade me. To destroy me.”