Extensis Vitae: Empire of Dust

by Gregory Mattix

  Jesus, I just killed a child. Marcus stared at the corpse, rattled by the experience. After a moment, he forced himself to take in the carnage again. Just remember what that thing really is… was. He slowly exhaled in relief and got a grip on himself.

  The orderlies chose that moment to arrive. They gaped as they saw the slaughter in the observation room.

  “Make sure that thing is truly dead. Sanitize the room completely. Use protective gear and incinerate everything—you both know how destructive that organism is. And grab a couple skins to accompany you, just in case.”

  The orderlies went to don protective gear, and Marcus headed back to his office. He would have been greatly disturbed by his actions just six months before, but now he was a changed man—one who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty when events called for it, even though he might not like it.

  Chapter 3

  Private Alistair Thorne’s hand trembled from the cold as he raised a crumpled unfiltered cigarette to his cracked lips. He sheltered the tiny ember from the miserable drizzle as he inhaled deeply. The fact that the cigarette had even lit in those conditions was a minor miracle. The nicotine perked him up slightly after his eleventh hour keeping watch. The smoke warmed his lungs, but he had long ago lost the feeling in his extremities, especially his booted feet in the twenty centimeters of muck at the bottom of the trench. A frigid sludge of water, mud, blood, piss, and shit filled the bottom of the trenches no matter how much time the soldiers spent bailing it out. There seemed to be no end to the persistent rain and the anguish it brought.

  To Thorne’s right, someone coughed wetly. Oncoming pneumonia most likely. That one won’t last two more days unless he’s pulled off the line.

  After four months in the trenches, Thorne was already a veteran at the ripe age of seventeen. The II Corps of the British Army was positioned near a town with the nearly unpronounceable name of “Ypres.” The Flemish word must translate to “hell.” His home, his girlfriend Madelaine, and the promising life that had been ahead of him were just distant memories as he fought to stay alert through the last hour of his watch in the freezing slop until he could roll up in his poncho for a few hours of sleep.

  A platoon of green recruits had arrived at the front that morning. One of them had already panicked and tried to flee before the lieutenant, barely older than the majority of the men he commanded, had ordered several of the soldiers to drag the recruit back into the trench and tie him up until he calmed down. Thorne wondered what the point was—the kid would probably lose his head when the fighting resumed and get himself killed anyway. As long as he doesn’t get any of the rest of us killed with him.

  Somewhere, about a hundred meters in front of Thorne’s position, his friend Gerry Daley lay where he had fallen, entangled in a strand of barbed wire on the stretch of ground known as No Man’s Land. Thorne was glad the driving rain obscured his view. His friend had suffered there for nearly half an hour before Thorne had mercifully put a bullet in his head.

  The sharp pain of the cigarette singeing Thorne’s fingers brought him back to the present. He realized the rain had let up. Although he willed himself not to look, his eyes were drawn as if by a magnetic force to Gerry’s remains, which had become visible once again.

  The condition of his dead friend had only worsened since Thorne had seen him the day before. The flesh had blistered and melted off his bones from the effects of the mustard gas released during the past several days of shelling. His face was a grim rictus, the hole in his forehead a dark scar against the white bone. Gerry’s skeletal face seemed to be grinning at Thorne, as if saying, “Come on, mate. Take the easy way out and join me out here.”

  Their unit had been forced to fall back after the ill-advised offensive had been blunted. During their retreat across No Man’s Land, the banshee shrieks of artillery shells began raining down around them, followed by bone-rattling explosions. In the chaos, Gerry’s foot got entangled in a line of barbed wire, and he fell with a cry, the barbs tearing deep gashes as it tightened around his calf. Thorne struggled in vain to free his friend, but without wire cutters, he couldn’t loosen the strands. His bayonet was too dull to do the job. Gerry clung to Thorne’s arm with an iron grip of panic.

  “Don’t leave me here, Alistair! I can’t die in this hellhole,” Gerry pleaded.

  Around them, Thorne saw the yellow clouds rising from the shells, and he knew his friend would die. Up and down the front, the barrage continued, but where they were, it had become eerily quiet. The creeping death of the mustard gas was about to claim more lives in a burning, blistering agony.

  “I’m sorry—there’s nothing I can do.” Avoiding looking at his friend, Thorne wrenched free of Gerry’s grasp. He quickly donned his gas mask and turned tail, running for the relative safety of the trench.

  The cloud of mustard gas billowed over No Man’s Land and slowly crept toward the trench. Gerry cried out in agony as he inhaled the poisonous gas. He began gurgling and vomiting.

  After listening to the pitiful sounds of Gerry’s suffering for several long minutes, Thorne decided to end his anguish. That had been five days before.

  The wind suddenly shifted, and Thorne realized conditions were ripe for another artillery barrage. The Germans would unleash another shelling, and the wind would blow the choking mustard gas across British lines and down into the trenches.

  Sure enough, minutes later, the barrage began. Shells whistled through the air, and the green recruits yelled in panic at the harrowing sound. Explosions rocked No Man’s Land, sending showers of muck flying everywhere. Thorne donned his gas mask, its small box respirator already strapped to his chest. The lenses of the mask were fogged up, but he could see enough. Gerry’s remains disappeared behind an explosion of mud from a nearby artillery strike. I hope that destroyed his corpse… I don’t know how much longer I can stand to look at him like that. The ground shook and rumbled for several minutes before the barrage stopped.

  Thorne’s ears rang after the assault—he could hear nothing but his own breath rasping harshly through the respirator. The awful silence stretched out for long minutes before he became aware of other sounds resuming around him. Soldiers hunkered down, murmuring quietly in fear as they waited for the mustard gas to flow into the trench. Someone was saying a Hail Mary nearby. Many of Thorne’s comrades repeatedly checked to ensure a tight seal for their gas masks and made sure their skin was fully covered by clothing to avoid the gas.

  The recruit that had panicked earlier sat forgotten amid the chaos, whimpering quietly, his face white as a sheet. Thorne slashed the ropes securing the recruit’s wrists but left the ankle binding intact so he wouldn’t run.

  “Put on your respirator,” he snapped, turning his attention back to No Man’s Land. He peered over the lip of the trench, watching in fascination as the deadly yellow-brown cloud oozed forward, propelled by the breeze.

  “Come on, damn it,” the lieutenant muttered nearby. “Shift, wind.”

  Maybe it was just dumb luck, but the lieutenant’s words seemed to have an effect. The breeze seemed to die off just as the cloud was nearing the trench. It hovered there, a looming cloud of death just a few meters away.

  Minutes seemed to turn to hours, and eventually the wind shifted from out of the north, blowing the cloud down the front and causing it to disperse slightly. Suddenly, ominous shadows loomed in the yellow haze. German soldiers in their long, dark coats and helmets, faces obscured by gas masks, charged the line like evil apparitions.

  “The Krauts are attacking!” shouted someone down the line.

  Gunfire erupted all around.

  The stock of Thorne’s Lee-Enfield rifle was cold against his cheek through the thin material of his gas mask. He aimed and fired, catching a German soldier in the chest. The scene was absolute chaos, with bullets flying and screams of wounded all around. Thorne focused on the calming rhythm of working the bolt. On a good day, he could get off over thirty rounds a minute.

  Chamber a round…
aim… fire. Repeat.

  Realizing his magazine was empty, Thorne dropped down in the trench to reload. He released the magazine and pulled another from his bandolier. Just as he slammed it home and rose back up, the enemy overran the trench.

  A boot connected with Thorne’s helmet, sending him staggering backward. Three soldiers dropped into the trench in front of him. The nearest raised his rifle and pointed it at Thorne, who struggled to regain his senses. He saw death in the barrel of the Mauser.

  A nearby gunshot rang out, and the German soldier fell. The recruit whom Thorne had freed was trying to chamber another round, from where he remained seated on a folding stool, ankles still bound.

  The recruit’s chest erupted as the second German soldier shot him from close distance. The enemy soldier chambered another round and turned toward Thorne, but he had recovered his senses and put a bullet through the eye hole of the German’s gas mask.

  Thorne reloaded, but the third soldier lunged at him. Thorne dodged back as the bayonet sliced against his thigh. He swatted at the German’s probing bayonet with his own rifle, blocking another strike, but then he tripped over a corpse lying facedown in the muck. He managed to hold onto his rifle but splashed onto his back in the freezing, muddy water. His bayonet’s tip lodged into the soggy timber supporting the trench wall. He tried to tug it free but was too slow. The German soldier stabbed downward. Thorne rolled sideways, but the blade pierced his chest, glancing off his collar bone.

  With a cry, Thorne grasped the hot barrel of the rifle and strained to pull the bayonet free. The other soldier was off-balance, so Thorne kicked out, cracking the man’s kneecap. His leg buckled, and he fell onto Thorne. The German’s eyes were wide with panic behind his gas mask as they struggled. Thorne imagined his must be the same. I bet he’s just a kid like me.

  The bloody bayonet gleamed dully inches from their faces as they wrestled in the muck. Filthy water splashed up and obscured Thorne’s mask so he could barely see. His body was going numb from the cold, and his breath rasped harshly in his ears from the respirator. He could hear the other man’s breath, just as labored.

  This is it. I’m going to die here at the bottom of a trench with a bayonet through my guts. Bizarrely, the picture of Gerry’s skeletal grin popped in his head. “It won’t be long now, Alistair. I’ll be seeing you soon, mate!”

  Thorne felt the desperate panic of a cornered animal. No! I will not die in this shithole, he vowed. A rush of adrenaline surged through his numb limbs, and he managed to roll his opponent over. He kneed the man in the groin and got atop him.

  The German groaned but maintained his grip on the rifle. Thorne was able to force the rifle against the German’s chest with his weight atop it. The bayonet pierced the breathing hose of the man’s respirator, carving a gash in it. Water splashed over them as they grappled. The German coughed violently as he inhaled muddy water and his grip on the Mauser loosened. Thorne wrenched the rifle free and drove it into the other man’s gut. The German soldier gurgled as he cried out, choking on water inside his breathing hose.

  Thorne got back to his feet and saw the offensive was over. The British troops had beaten back the German assault, and the enemy had retreated across No Man’s Land. The British had sustained a number of casualties, many of those the new recruits, but the war would drag on. Thorne was just glad to be alive for another day.

  Once the cloud of mustard gas eventually cleared from the battlefield, Thorne was distressed to find Gerry’s rictus grin continuing to mock him from across No Man’s Land.

  ***

  One hundred eighty-three years later, Alistair Thorne woke up confused, Gerry Daley’s ghoulish face fresh in his mind. The satin sheets of the plush bed reminded him where he was… when he was. He rarely slept, let alone dreamed, but he had fallen into a deep sleep and dreamt about the war for the first time in years.

  Fucking Gerry Daley. Why him? Why now?

  He had lost hundreds of friends and acquaintances over the years, and they never troubled him for long. However, for some reason, Gerry was the one he could never forget, no matter how much he wanted to.

  But he knew why. Even after the reset twenty years prior, things weren’t going according to plan yet. And since some alarming glitches were showing up in the system, his very existence was threatened. The likelihood was still very small, of course, but he hadn’t lived for two centuries without being extremely prudent. He would have to make some adjustments—add another layer of redundancy to the system.

  Alicia Salinger answered his call immediately.

  “I want to meet with you and Bethany right away. Some changes need to be made, but I want this kept quiet.”

  The one thing Alistair Thorne was still afraid of was dying. He would not allow that to happen.

  Chapter 4

  The brilliant lights and holoscreens of Sea-Tac were a rainbow of shimmering colors reflected on the slick, wet concrete. A cold rain fell in a steady drizzle as Rin walked aimlessly through the streets of the neon jungle. She had no destination in mind. Sometimes, she just enjoyed the simple pleasure of walking and allowing her mind to wander. Her life hadn’t been her own for several years, and she almost didn’t know what to do with herself, having been given a sabbatical from clan business. Her brother had told her to take some time to “find herself” again.

  Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  Rin had tried to reengage as wakagashira, first lieutenant for the clan, when she had returned to Sea-Tac, but even after the uncovering and execution of the traitors, her heart hadn’t been in the fight, and she couldn’t focus. Despite being victimized by the traitors’ machinations, Rin still felt the crushing shame of being responsible for Ryu’s death and Ayane’s imprisonment. It was something that would not be gotten past easily.

  After lecturing her about her listlessness and lack of focus, Seijin had told her to take some time off. That had been a month prior. Rin didn’t know when or if she would return.

  She pulled the hood of her coat lower to prevent the gusting wind from blowing rain in her face as she navigated the pedestrian traffic clogging the sidewalk.

  A businessman cursed as he was jostled off the sidewalk, soaking one of his million-yen pair of shoes in a deep puddle standing against the curb. A madman with a cardboard sign hanging around his neck raved unintelligibly at every passerby, listening or not. The words had run down his sign from the rain, rendering his message illegible.

  The traffic flow on the sidewalk parted around a stationary knot of people like a stream around a large rock. A crowd stood gawking at a large vidscreen over the square reporting the news. “Terrorist Attack Rocks Sea-Tac,” a headline read. The news report had no audio, but Rin could make out the surveillance footage of a bomb exploding in the central subway station. The attack had happened several hours before, at rush hour. “New USA Terrorists Infiltrating Pac-Rim?” the subheading speculated.

  More than likely. Thorne Industries didn’t take kindly to our attack on their garrison in Skin City. They probably suspect we are aiding the rebels too. Just a matter of time until this blows up in all our faces. Realizing she was still thinking of the struggle against TI in the first person plural, she scoffed. Not my problem anymore. I’ve seen enough friends die in front of me. I’m through with this shit.

  Reznik’s calm face came unbidden to her before she could suppress the memory. “You have to go, Rin… see this through,” he had implored her as he grasped her hand, the life seeping out of him from the fist-sized hole in his chest. And she had run like a coward while her only remaining friend had died in the street.

  “I did see this through,” she muttered, trying to justify her actions to herself. “Skin City is in good hands now.” But she knew the endeavor wasn’t finished. The wasteland rebels were taking the fight to Thorne as best as they could. She had the connections and was acquainted with Red Royce and Keeva—she knew she should be coordinating Shiru’s support.

  I need a drink. The urge to dr
own herself in alcohol had been stronger those last few months than it had been for years. The only problem was the nanites in her body metabolized the alcohol molecules well before they had any effect. Just having the taste of liquor in her mouth was a poor consolation, but was better than nothing.

  Even lost in her thoughts, she easily detected a pickpocket’s quick hand as it slid into her coat. A gaunt woman with half of her head shaved and covered with tattoos, the wasted look of a junkie in her eyes, jostled her and mumbled an apology even as her hand groped along Rin’s waist in search of a hidden wallet.

  Rin snatched the woman by the wrist and spun her, twisting her arm back behind her as she shoved her face into the glass window of a cafe. The window rattled, and startled diners looked up to see the thief’s face mashed against the glass.

  “Stop! I didn’t do anything,” the woman wailed pitifully. “Please, lady!”

  Rin put more pressure on her arm, forcing it up between her shoulder blades as her relentless hold threatened to dislocate the woman’s shoulder. The thief screeched in pain, and Rin released her grip.

  “You’re lucky I don’t put your face through that window,” she snarled. “Go make an honest living for a change.” Rin walked away, leaving the pickpocket to nurse her strained shoulder and bruised wrist.

  An honest living—ha! Who am I to tell others to make an honest living? When was the last time I did that? Twenty years now… before the sky rained fire. I had turned my back on the family to pursue my career. I once had an honest job but no worthwhile relationships to speak of. It’s the lonely road for me—it’s my curse in life.

  She realized she had reached the entrance to the massive underground Galleria mall. Her condo was about a mile away—cutting through the mall would be a shortcut. A shortcut with plenty of watering holes. A slight smile formed on her lips as she walked through the automated doors.