The GODD Chip (The Unity of Four Book 1)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  Whatever the catalyst, the evolution of jakali tactics was alarming. Caelan sat down across the aisle from what remained of his favorite android, Ertha, and sighed. “Look what they did to you, luv. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop them.”

  The Athena-class android had not only been his best tracker, but also she had been his comfort bot for several years. Unfortunately, she was too damaged to ever hold a laser rifle or share his bed again. The jakalis had pulverized her into scrap metal and destroyed her brain core, meaning Caelan would have to buy a replacement and train her all over again.

  That thought saddened him. Ertha had been more than a supplicant machine to him. She had been a companion unlike any other he had known. And a pack of jakalis had demolished her in less than a minute. Alarming, indeed.

  He raised his coffee cup to Ertha’s remains and said, “Cheers to you, luv. You were the best, more than I deserved. I’ll make the bastards pay for what they did, don’t you fret about that.”

  Gutant refugee village

  Limahuli, Kauai, the Hawaiian Islands

  Avana sat by Natti and layered a cool cloth on her friend’s forehead. Beside her sat RJ. With his arms circled around his raised knees, he rocked back and forth and stared at Natti as if prodding her to wake up. Looking across the infirmary, Avana watched the village doctor, Malo, change the dressing of Kaleo’s spear wound. Behind them, she saw the first light of dawn appear through the window.

  Praise the four gods, she thought. Throughout the long hours of overnight darkness, Avana had sat by the unconscious Natti, holding her hand, waiting for the snarls and growls of a jakali attack on the village. Blessedly, no attack had occurred and, now that dawn had arrived, the exhausted Avana could finally relax her tensed mind and muscles.

  She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep. But sleep would not come, for her mind still grappled with the memories of the melee on the beach. While Fiji had prevented the jakalis from reaching Avana and RJ, the android could not shield them from the terror of watching endless numbers of jakalis stream out of the jungle.

  They were supposed to be safe during the daytime. Avana had been told on many occasions that the jakalis’ eyes were so sensitive to sunlight, they could not see during the day…even when it was cloudy…even when it was raining. That was why jakalis only hunted at night. Only, that adage didn’t appear true anymore.

  Are we to be prisoners, hiding inside all the time, now? How will we gather food? How will we fetch water?

  Avana was certain similar thoughts were bouncing around in RJ’s mind, though he had not said a word since the Makoas rescued them from the beach. Avana opened her eyes and wrapped her arm around him, kissing him on the head. I don’t know what’s a worse end, Avana thought. Being killed by a jakali or turning into one.

  The latter fate awaited Avana, RJ, Kaleo and Natti if they survived that long. Avana knew it, they all knew it. She turned and looked at Natti. For her, the wait would not be long now. The physical signs of her gutations were evident. And after watching Natti’s growl-infused rage on the beach, Avana suspected the last stage of the transformation, madness, was not far away.

  In that last stage, Natti would begin to experience unbearable pain in her body and mind. The only relief she would find would come in the form of hormones released during sexual gratification, leading her to develop aggressive behaviors to satisfy the urges and ease her pain.

  While Avana knew Malo had been able to lessen the impulses among other gutant teens in the village by injecting them with a cocktail of artificial hormones, it was only a short-term fix. Over time, a jakali’s brain required more frequent and stronger doses of hormones to overcome increasing levels of pain and, at some point, no amount of sex or supplemented hormones were effective.

  This was what drove jakalis mad and filled them with uncontrollable rage. Many jakalis still clung to the desire for the hormones, leading them to defile humans they caught, but most found satisfaction only in beating and killing captured prey. And that was what Avana and other humans were to jakalis, prey.

  As Avana adjusted the cloth on Natti’s forehead, she thought it would be more merciful if Natti died in her sleep now rather than let the madness overtake her later. That thought was still cycling through her mind when Malo appeared at Natti’s bedside and said, “Hey, you and RJ should lie down and try to get some sleep. There are open beds in the other room. If anything changes with Natti or Kaleo, I will let you know.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” RJ asked. “Why won’t she wake up? Why does she have a fever?”

  Malo crouched down and touched RJ’s hand. “She’ll be okay, buddy. Sometimes, our bodies go to sleep to help us heal.”

  “She doesn’t look right. Neither does Kaleo,” RJ said. “I think they’re sick. Why aren’t you giving them medicine?”

  Avana was a part-time orderly in the infirmary, so she knew the answer to RJ’s question. There was no medicine to give. The infirmary had run out of all but a few medications a month prior, and Chief Akela had yet to find a trading partner willing to barter for a resupply. So, until the situation changed, the village had only natural remedies to treat the sick and wounded.

  “Well, RJ, it’s like this,” said Malo, “we don’t know exactly what’s causing their fevers, so we could make things worse by guessing what’s wrong with them and giving them medicine. Right now, the fevers are under control. We’ve treated their wounds the best we can. They seem to be resting comfortably. So, there’s not much more we can do until they wake up and tell us if they’re experiencing other symptoms besides the fevers.”

  Avana hugged RJ. “In other words, rest is the best medicine they can have right now.”

  Malo smiled at Avana. “Well said. Better said.” He pointed at the two of them. “The same advice goes for you. Now, hit the sack. Doctor’s orders.”

  Begrudgingly, Avana unwrapped her arm from around RJ and stood. “Come on, Malo’s right. We need rest too. Betcha when we wake up, Kaleo and Natti will be awake.”

  CHAPTER 8: CONSEQUENCES

  Western border wall

  Lakelands Province, New Atlantia

  The acrid smell of charred wood was overwhelming. Damon covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and led Prefect Munoz through the field of smoldering debris. Their destination was a jumble of metal a hundred meters from the crater. At a distance, the jumble looked no different than the hundreds of other debris piles strewn around the area. Up close, however, this particular pile was unique.

  When they arrived at the site, Damon tucked away his handkerchief, crouched down and pointed at the remains of tattered clothing covering the metal chassis beneath. “This is definitely not one of ours. We believe it was driving the van. Most likely military-grade. When it got within range of our barricade, it detonated itself, wiping out about forty percent of our Vipers and disabling the rest for a good seven to ten minutes. As it turned out, that was enough time for the rest of the agitators to escape.”

  The frown on the prefect’s face was as sour as his mood. Damon waited for another lecture about the incompetence of his task force. The pompous politician could not begin to grasp the challenges Damon had faced in the capture attempt. Beacon had resorted to extraordinary measures to accomplish their rescues, far exceeding the complexity of any previous rescue mission. His team had contended with dual-city ops, exploding androids, laser rifles, drones, and faux-statues with hidden decoy clones. But that didn’t matter to Munoz.

  “You mean to tell me,” the prefect said, “these criminals breached our border, smuggled out the Hearns boy and, in the process, destroyed four surveillance gliders and a score of your Viper androids? All while you watched it happen? And you still have no idea how they got in or out?”

  Damon sighed. It was a grim, but accurate, assessment of the Minneapolis fiasco. Thankfully, Munoz didn’t throw in his earlier acidic recap of the Chicago disaster into the latter assessment. Damon picked up a c
hunk of debris and stood. “Yes, Prefect, that’s exactly what happened.”

  Munoz spread out his arms and turned in a circle. “All of this for a ten-year-old? A boy who may be dead? It makes no sense.”

  It was hard for Damon to disagree. Yes, Billy Hearns’ DNA was unique, but for Beacon to go to such extremes to rescue him was beyond puzzling. Munoz turned and began to walk away, his long robes brushing over debris as he headed back toward the crater.

  “Mark my words, the Carapach government is behind this,” Munoz said.

  Damon tossed down the android part and followed. “I spoke to their ambassador this morning. He denied any involvement.”

  “Of course they denied it, Spiers. They wouldn’t admit involvement even if you had managed to catch them in the act. It’s in their nature to lie. Just like they deny supporting Beacon, even though everybody knows they do.”

  What do you know of their nature? Damon thought. Lounging around your palace, pretending you’re an evvie, playing with your androids all day and night. “The ambassador suggested we look internally. Said it was probably an act of insurrection.”

  Munoz stopped and spun around, his robes billowing out like a hoop dress. “Insurrection? How insulting. No New Atlantian would assist Beacon. Ever. Trust me, Major, Carapach and Beacon are two peas in the same pod.”

  Damon scratched the back of his white mane. “I don’t know, Prefect. We definitely have our fair share of disaffected gutants…not to mention didgees fed up with—”

  “Nonsense!” Munoz said. “New Atlantia is a model society. We take excellent care of the lower castes.”

  You’re as blind as you are pompous, thought Damon, but it was not worth challenging the noble-caste governor. Munoz had immersed himself in the rhetoric of the republic long ago and to challenge him was to invite censure or demotion. And Damon was already in hot water as it was. Pointing out the truth to Munoz would only make matters worse.

  It took another hour to tour the rest of the crime scene. By the time they finished, the shadow of the western wall had already begun to creep over the forest. As Damon escorted Munoz back to his caravan of security vehicles, the prefect pressed him to outline his next steps.

  “Well, we’ve got a lot of debris to examine,” said Damon. “Hopefully, we’ll find some clues that will help us track down our perps. We’re also analyzing all the data we acquired before the explosion to see if we can narrow the search radius for the tunnel.”

  “You’re still convinced there is a tunnel?” Munoz asked.

  “All the checkpoints at the border were closed. They either used a tunnel or they’re still out in the woods somewhere. We know they had dampening cloaks. We found scraps of one in the van debris.”

  Munoz scoffed and mumbled a disparaging comment. Given Damon’s urgent desire to rid himself of the prefect, he swallowed his pride and continued describing his action plan. “We’ll also interview the people at the gene center and church. Plus, we still have Rodrick Hearns in custody.”

  “Oh, yes, that reminds me,” Munoz said. “Release him at once.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve had several calls from Guild members this morning demanding Hearns’ release, including one from Sir Collins, the grandmaster of the Guild.”

  “So?”

  “So, release him. That’s an order.”

  “I haven’t questioned him yet.”

  “His attorney assured me Mr. Hearns would answer your written questions. Just send them to the attorney.”

  “He’s a suspect. He may be a co-conspirator.”

  “Come, now, Spiers. Do you really want me to go above your head and get Chief Wilkens involved? Aren’t you in deep enough trouble without getting a double barrel from him? Hmm? He’s ready to sack you as it is. Why push him over the edge? Release Hearns.”

  What balls, thought Damon. I’ll release him when I’m damned good and ready. “Excuse me, Prefect, I have evidence to sift through.”

  As Damon stalked away, the prefect shouted, “Do it today, Spiers. You hear me?”

  Where does that pervert get off ordering me around? And what did the Guild promise him to take the heat off of Hearns? Probably some illegal androids, or maybe one of their didgee conscripts.

  Ignoring another shout from Munoz, Damon headed to the other side of the crater to meet up with Cassidy.

  The noise from the bulldozers made it difficult for Damon to hear Cassidy deliver her briefing, so he motioned her to follow him away from the workers filling in the crater. When they had walked a hundred yards or so into the woods, the thick foliage muted the grunting and grinding machines enough to hold a conversation.

  “All right, that’s better. So, start over at the top. You said something about serial numbers.”

  The blond android nodded. “Yes, I was saying that we had examined the pieces of the andro we collected and found a couple of parts with partial serial numbers that tell us the make and model. It was a Makoa.”

  “A Makoa? I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

  “That’s not surprising,” said Cassidy. “I searched our Android Registry and found only a few hundred in New Atlantia. Of those, only twenty-three are located within a five-hundred-mile radius of Minneapolis and ten of those are owned by one man. He runs an amusement park near Chicago. He uses them for a battle experience attraction.”

  The last Damon had heard, New Atlantia’s Android Registry had over half a billion active android registrations and twice that number of inactive registrations. As he recalled, the media had made a big deal of the active count when the latest figures were announced, for it meant the average active-droid-to-citizen ratio was a shade over ten. But that was skewed. People of the lower castes were lucky to have one or two, while many evvies and well-healed nobles had hundreds. Plus, a good percentage of active andros were government workers, like Cassidy. And then there were outliers like Damon who had none by choice.

  “A few hundred, eh? I assume you checked on all the active Makoas and accounted for all of the inactives?” Damon asked.

  “Yes, sir. All the registrations match the master serial numbers in the database.”

  “So, the Makoa originated in Carapach?”

  “Or passed through Carapach,” Cassidy said. “According to the android-park guy in Chicago, there’s a healthy trade market for Makoas off the continent. Given their age, he said most people buy inactives for replacement parts, but you can buy ones that are still operational.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  As Damon recalled, the Makoa model was a warrior-class android. Back when relations with Hawaiians had been hospitable, before countries started dumping their gutants and jakalis on islands in the South Pacific, Makoas had been the primary battle-bot for half of the world’s armies. They were as indestructible as they were lethal. But that all changed once the dumps began.

  Though the dumping first started when Damon was a child, he still remembered how quickly tensions escalated. It all began when a didgee philanthropist from the nation of Texas bought sizeable plots of land on each of the Hawaiian Islands, intending to create sanctuaries for gutants where they would be cared for, treated with dignity and allowed to reach their “full potential” during their short lifespans.

  News of the sanctuaries traveled faster than a shooting star, and many countries began clearing out their overcrowded internment colonies, sending gutants and jakalis to the Hawaiian islands by the boatload.

  The Hawaiians objected strenuously, but as one of Damon’s history teachers had said, “It was like trying to stem the flow of the Mississippi River with a mop bucket.”

  In retaliation for the dumps, the Hawaiians ceased the export of Makoas. In return, many countries banned exports of all goods to the islands. In the end, the Hawaiians lost out. Their former trading partners found other sources of warrior-class androids and the isolated archipelago succumbed to chaos. Without a flow of imported goods and money from the sale of Makoas, the island�
�s economy and government collapsed. Damon considered it a tragic end for what had once been a proud society.

  The Hawaiian dumps marked the beginning of the Great Purge era, during which hundreds of remote South Pacific islands were inundated with unwanted gutants and jakalis from every continent. In those days, Jakali Syndrome was just beginning to emerge and the condition was poorly understood. Panic swept up teens with unrelated gutations into the purge. While many countries had since turned to euthanasia as the preferred jakali-management practice, some nations still dumped their pre-jakali gutants and jakalis in the waters off the coasts of the remote islands. Those who survived the swim fended for themselves in the wild. As far as Damon knew, the gutant sanctuaries still existed, but from what he had heard, the islands were now jakali-infested hells on Earth.

  Damon was roused from his recollections by Cassidy’s raised voice. He looked up to see a concerned expression on her face. “Are you all right, sir? You blanked out on me.”

  “Did I? I’m sorry. What did I miss?”

  “I was telling you I’ve contacted the Carapach ambassador. I requested a file of all their Makoa registrations, active and inactive. I would not anticipate a reply, however. The ambassador was very displeased with Prefect Munoz for pointing a finger at them for the incidents yesterday.”

  “They probably wouldn’t give us such a file under any circumstances. I know I wouldn’t give them one from our registry if they asked us,” Damon said. “Why did you want it?”

  “We haven’t located the Makoa’s brain core, so we don’t have a master serial number to request a single record search. I intended to cross-reference the registration file with our database of known Carapach agitators to identify matches.”

  “Whoa, hold up. You didn’t find the brain core?”

  Cassidy shook her head. “It appears the Makoa ejected the core before the explosion. We’ve found chunks of the skull, but not a single trace of the core.”