Extensis Vitae: Empire of Dust

by Gregory Mattix

  If Serrano is dead, as Bethany thought, then who the hell is spoofing his ID? Some hacker, no doubt, and most likely his killer. But what if Serrano is still alive? Why would he want to meet me? I’ve barely spoken to the guy except in limited official capacity.

  Marcus had been tempted to alert Bethany and have CorpSec come blazing in, but that wouldn’t have accomplished much besides perhaps getting him some personal recognition. He wasn’t too concerned with his own future in the corporation any longer. The matter with Serrano seemed a personal vendetta, and that intrigued Marcus. I want to know what Serrano knows or, if he’s dead, what his killer knows about that night.

  A block ahead on the right was a ubiquitous sandwich chain Marcus had eaten at several times after late nights at the clubs. According to his HUD map, the Ibizu Lounge was about eight blocks from there. Just enough distance between to meet with “Serrano” and get some distance from my bodyguards. If the people behind this are as good as I think, hopefully the meeting will be blacked out from video surveillance.

  “Hey, pull up at this sandwich shop up here,” he called through the speaker to his bodyguards in front. “I want to grab something to eat.”

  The limo decelerated and pulled up at the curb in front of the SubKing. Beefy jumped out from the passenger seat, pistol in hand. Taciturn scanned their surroundings from the driver seat. Marcus got out and looked around but didn’t see anything that would alarm his bodyguards.

  “I think I can handle getting a sandwich on my own. Wait here.” Marcus started for the door, but Beefy followed. Irritated, Marcus spun around to confront the bodyguard. “I said—”

  “Orders. We cannot let you out of our sight.” The big skin’s eyes roved suspiciously over the people walking by the store. “With the security lockdown, you shouldn’t even be leaving the compound without filing a request through—”

  Marcus raised a hand to forestall Beefy’s objections. “Okay, I get it. Look, man, I’ve got to take a dump, all right? Something didn’t agree with me. Now, you aren’t going to wipe my ass for me too, are you?”

  Beefy frowned at him for a moment and then nodded curtly toward the door. “I’ll wait outside.” A couple teenagers walking by flinched away as Beefy glared at them.

  “Thanks.” Marcus sighed in relief. He almost felt bad about the deception—since the bodyguards were just doing their jobs—until he remembered that they were probably reporting on everything he did.

  His HUD revealed the time to be 23:53:47. I’m going to have to run for it to lose these two and make it on time.

  Marcus entered the sandwich joint and took the narrow corridor toward the restrooms in the back. Seeing the kitchen door ajar, he ducked inside and quickly made his way to the back, where he went out the rear exit and into the alley. He broke into a flat-out run.

  At the end of the alley, he checked in both directions, but the coast was clear. He bolted to the right, went down to the next street, and took the next left. I need to take a zig-zag path so they can’t see me with their enhanced optics. The crisp night air chilled his lungs. He received a few curious looks from pedestrians, but nobody bothered him.

  His heart pounding in his chest and breathing hard, Marcus made it to the Ibizu Lounge with no signs of pursuit yet. Damn, I’m out of shape. Barely a minute to spare.

  Marcus took a moment to catch his breath and straightened out his coat. He nonchalantly opened the door and stepped inside the dim lounge. As he waited for his eyes to adjust, a young woman accosted him before Marcus got more than a couple steps inside the door. She was attractive, with a bob cut in a shocking shade of blue.

  “Hello, darling.” The woman stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You didn’t bring any company, did you?” she whispered in his ear, and he felt the hard barrel of a gun shoved into his ribs. She slipped an arm around his waist, as if they were acquainted.

  “No, I gave my bodyguards the slip. At least I hope I did. Who are you? How do you know me?” He’d never seen the woman before in his life.

  She glanced at another woman with short dark hair and a young black man who were sitting near a window, watching the street. The man wore wraparound shades, but his cheeks were illuminated from a display projected on the inside. After a moment, the man gave a thumbs-up.

  A few other patrons were inside, but they were determined to mind their own business, sparing him no more than a quick glance. Soft Asian music played in the background, a Chinese pipa and bamboo flute from the sound of it. The relaxing music contrasted sharply with Marcus’s nerves.

  “This way, Marcus.” The woman steered him toward the rear of the room, gun still pressing against his ribs. “Congrats on the promotion. Director of Section 7—sounds important.” She had an accent he couldn’t quite place. They headed toward a curtained-off back room. “It wasn’t terribly difficult to ID you—we took a peek at the internal corporate directory when we slipped that file onto the network.” She winked at him.

  “That was you?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t take credit for that personally, I’m afraid. One of my guys did it. How did it go over with your fellow employees?”

  Despite the gun in his ribs, Marcus found himself put at ease by the woman’s charisma. “Oh, it was quite the topic of water-cooler conversation.” He chuckled at the memory.

  “Glad to hear it,” she said with a grin. They stopped at the curtain. “In you go. He’s waiting for you. Hope you appreciate what it took to set this all up.” She nudged him gently forward.

  With a deep breath, Marcus stepped through into the dim back room. It was empty save for a lone man sitting at a corner booth. The small flame from a table candle reflected off the man’s chrome eyes as he regarded Marcus for a moment.

  “Hello, son,” he finally said in a deep, familiar voice. Marcus barely recognized the man, but the voice instantly transported him back to his childhood. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

  Chapter 12

  A jukebox belted out a mid-nineties Aerosmith tune for the packed house in Paulie’s Pride, a local watering hole run by an ex-operator and popular with the special-ops community in Fayetteville. Christmas lights twinkled merrily from where they’d been draped across the rafters of the bar. Outside, the night was cold with blowing snow. The air inside the bar was toasty, the company was good, and the drinks kept flowing—all the things that indicated it would be another good night at Paulie’s.

  “Hey, Reznik! Your shot, bro.”

  Michael Reznik glanced over at the two men seated at a bar table next to his. The pair were attacking a huge basket of buffalo wings with a vengeance.

  Combs nodded at the pool table. “You’re up. Nash went to take a piss.”

  Reznik walked over to the pool table, noting the game was down to one ball for each team. He took a moment and lined up a shot, sinking the thirteen ball in a corner pocket. The cue ball rolled and bounced gently off the cushion, leaving a clear look at a long shot down the table. “Eight ball, corner,” Reznik called. He took a deep breath, let it out, and sank the eight at the opposite end with smooth precision.

  “Nice shot,” Jefferson remarked. He had managed to get buffalo sauce smeared on his cheek. He took a long draught of beer, emptying his glass. “You guys win. Time to hit the head and then pick me up one of those honeys at the bar.” He belched and hopped off the stool, unsteadily making his way toward the restroom.

  “Man, you talking about those barracks hoes?” Combs shook his head in disgust. “I’m sure you recognize those two—they make their way up and down the hallway every weekend.”

  Reznik laughed. “Never really paid attention, actually. I’ve got a girl in Denver, remember?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Combs looked at the basket of wings and made a decision. “You want the rest of these? I’m full.” He pushed it toward Reznik, who held up his hand.

  “I’m good, thanks.” He noticed the two women Jefferson had been eyeing were smiling at him and
Combs. “I think your boy there needs a wingman. That’s more than he can handle.”

  “Shit, any real live woman is more than he can handle,” Combs said with a laugh. “I suppose I better keep his ass out of trouble.” He made his way toward the restroom, leaving Reznik to his thoughts.

  Feels good to be back. Reznik’s memory was a little hazy. He couldn’t remember exactly what mission they had returned from, but he knew he had recently returned from downrange. He frowned into the bottom of his beer. Strange, I should be able to remember. I haven’t had that much to drink. A headache was starting to come on, and he massaged his temples.

  Looking around the bar, he saw it was starting to clear out a little. His good friend Nash was leaning against the bar talking to Paulie. Nash nodded at Reznik when he saw him looking. The jukebox began playing AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell,” a song Reznik liked. He finished his beer and began drumming his hands on the edge of the table.

  “I missed it, huh? Those putzes already gave up?” Nash grinned at Reznik and set a fresh pitcher on the table. His blue eyes sparkled. “Where’d they take off to?”

  “They went to the ladies room to gossip, I guess. They were gonna holler at those two at the bar.” Reznik nodded at the pair at the bar.

  Nash groaned. “Aw, shit. I hope they brought rubbers—those skanks have been around the block a few dozen times.”

  “Eh, they’re big boys. They can handle themselves.”

  “You sure about that?” Nash laughed as he gestured to Combs and Jefferson, deep in conversation as they returned from the restroom, making a beeline for the pair at the bar. “Hey, numb nuts!” he called out, causing a number of heads to turn, including Jefferson and Combs. “Might want to wipe your face, Casanova.”

  Jefferson grabbed a napkin off the bar and began scrubbing at the buffalo sauce on his face.

  “You shouldn’t have said anything, Nash,” Combs hollered. “I was gonna let him make a fool of himself.”

  “Have no fear about that—the night is still young, and he’s got plenty of opportunities to screw things up still. Although those two aren’t the most discriminating.” Nash frowned.

  “Ah well, better he gets laid with a real woman than jerking off to his Internet porn.” Combs waved and went to join his friend at the bar.

  “You kids have fun,” Reznik called.

  “Now that amateur night is over, the pros can enjoy a few beers.” Nash poured the two of them a fresh pint.

  Reznik took a long drink. “You know what’s weird—I can’t even remember what the hell mission we just got back from. I’m losing it, man. We did get back from the sandbox, right?”

  Nash eyed Reznik with an introspective look that meant the conversation was about to turn serious. He scratched at the blond stubble on his chin. “In a fashion. I wouldn’t worry too much about that, though. Just enjoy your downtime. It’s good to be back, right?”

  Reznik nodded. “Yeah, of course. It’s always good to be back. I’ll probably take some leave and fly out to see Amanda as soon as I can. Just weird I can’t remember what we were doing.” He massaged his temples again—the headache was coming on strong. Maybe I should call it a night.

  Nash waved at Jefferson and Combs as they left the bar with their dates. Snow was blowing outside the door, and Reznik was glad it was cozy inside. As he looked around the bar, his gaze landed on a poster on the wall above the jukebox. A couple of Green Berets in camo paint were surfacing from a swamp, just their heads and rifles visible. A large motto, De Oppresso Liber, was splashed across the top of the poster. Something about that nagged at Reznik.

  “Don’t forget what we do,” Nash said gently. “But for now, just focus on the good things, hoss. Enjoy being back where you belong.”

  “I was in a nightmare, wasn’t I?” Reznik’s headache was becoming a full-on migraine. His memories started coming back in flashes. He could smell things burning and hear screams of people dying around him. “Wait, I was solo on this last op, wasn’t I?”

  “Your last mission,” Nash agreed. He took a sip of his beer and watched Reznik, sadly it seemed.

  “There’s so much death everywhere,” Reznik said, struggling to piece together the memories. “People struggling to survive, the innocent that can’t stand up for themselves being preyed on by armed thugs—many of them were corporate military types. I’m tired of it all, Nash. Why can’t I just get out of it like you and the other guys?”

  “Our tickets were already punched a long time ago, bud. You’re the only one left—it’s up to you now to carry on.”

  The door opened, and a blast of cold air swirled in the bar. Reznik shivered despite himself. An attractive young woman entered, dressed in just a thin white dress that clung to her appealingly. Reznik couldn’t see her face, as the wind pushed her long hair over her face—dark hair with golden streaks. He wondered how she didn’t freeze to death out in the snow and cold. She walked through the room slowly, looking around and taking in the memorabilia and knick-knacks decorating the place.

  “She’s here for you,” Nash continued. “It’s your last mission, buddy, if you choose to accept it. On the plus side, you always have the option of turning this one down—Uncle Sam’s been done with you for a while now. You’ve done your time, sacrificed more than anyone could be expected to.”

  “I’m just tired, Nash. I feel like I deserve some time off.”

  “There’s plenty of time off when you’re dead,” Nash quipped. He saw Reznik’s pained look and continued. “Look, here’s the deal. You’ve done a lot of good—don’t think of these past weeks as a nightmare. You’ve made a big difference in many people’s lives. That’s something to feel good about, right?”

  Reznik sighed. “I suppose so. Everything is just hazy—I can only get glimpses of the pain and hurt. Was all of this the right thing?”

  “Don’t talk like that. In my opinion, you are a damn hero, but it’s up to you to decide how much one man can take. You’ve earned your peace if you feel you’ve had enough. You’ve fought the good fight—you’ve made us proud, brother.” Nash clapped him on the shoulder. “You should go and talk to her now. We’ll always have time for this later on.”

  Reznik watched the woman, who seemed entranced by the flashing lights on the jukebox as if seeing one for the first time. After a moment, she walked past it and studied some of Paulie’s old war photos from Afghanistan lining the wall. Something about the woman was familiar, yet at the same time Reznik felt a sense of foreboding. He slid off the stool and met Nash’s eyes. His friend nodded supportively.

  “This is amazing—it’s like being in a time machine,” the woman said in wonder as Reznik walked up beside her. She turned her attention to a neon Bud Light sign that buzzed faintly. “I’ve seen places like this in holovids, of course, but now I’m really standing here in an early twenty-first century bar.” She finally looked at Reznik. He took a step back in shock at the sight of her bright golden eyes, like those of an owl.

  “Lynessa.” The name came unbidden to his tongue. As he looked her in the eyes, his hazy memories cleared like a fog before a cutting wind. Everything came flooding back at once. He remembered a flaming streak blazing in the darkness and a helicopter rocked by an explosion. Nash’s terrified face, as he fell backward into the night sky. A sterile cryochamber being pumped full of liquid nitrogen. Waking up on a cold, stainless-steel table. A fight in the depths of the earth against monsters with glowing eyes and green tendrils growing through their skin. Being beaten and having his eye gouged out, followed by a narrow escape culminating with a jump off a skyscraper. A battle in the streets of a city and the pain as laser blasts burned through his body. Finally, he fell from a hole blasted through his chest by a beautiful yet terrible angel of death.

  Reznik gasped from the overwhelming flood of memories. He looked around for Nash, but he was gone. The entire bar was empty. He looked back at Lynessa, who watched patiently as he struggled to come to grips with the past. “I… I died, didn
’t I?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply. “You saved my life. You saved the lives of so many. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your peace here with my presence. I watched you for a time from outside. You looked so happy with your friends, back in your old life again.”

  “What… what are you doing here? How is this possible? I thought all of that was some dream I couldn’t wake up from.”

  Lynessa’s pretty face seemed childlike as she looked sadly at him. He remembered she was a clone whose twin brother had died in their attempt to overthrow the Overseer of Skin City.

  “That was real—this here is the dream, my friend. They call it the digital dreams.”

  “If I’m dead, then where am I? Is this heaven or hell?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him curiously. “Neither. I suppose it’s a type of purgatory in a way. It’s a strange phenomenon the scientists don’t really have an explanation for. Your consciousness and memories were backed up to your cranial black box; your thoughts exist within. This,” her wave encompassed the bar, “is merely a construct of your mind. With no body or sensory input, your mind just dreams.”

  “Then how are you here?”

  “We recovered your black box after the battle. Well, quite some time after, I’m afraid.” She looked embarrassed. “But now your box is safe in our lab, and I am plugged into it, so I can interface with you.” She smiled. “Lady Angelis has offered to restore you to a new skin of your choosing at no cost to you if you so choose. She’d like to offer you the most precious gift she can offer—extended life. It’s a way of saying thanks for all that you did for the city and for all of us.”