by Dana Fredsti
He would have preferred to land out of sight and approach on foot from a short distance. Instead, he simply switched over to VTOL and—flashing the proper landing code to avoid getting shot down by the battery of concealed surface-to-air missiles—set down just outside the crumbled cinderblock building.
The gullwing canopy opened as the turbines powered down, and he stepped out. Silver hair in an impeccable military buzzcut, his sharp eyes brown and vulpine, skin bronzed. Wearing the crisp, sharp uniform of a high-ranking Directorate flight surgeon, he carried a field med kit.
He could see his breath; the air was chilly, but not as frosty as New Delhi or Riyadh, where punishing snow made fighting the Jihadis so unbearable. India was as far north as he ever wanted to be assigned. The vast majority of the Northern Hemisphere was an iced-over glacial wasteland, punctuated by slushy, glowing, radioactive craters where most of its cities used to be.
The Southern Hemisphere had escaped the intercontinental missiles and tac-nukes, but not the nuclear winter. South Africa, Argentina, most of Australia, and everything below them, had been under ice for more than a century and a half. No, India was as far north as he’d ever want to be assigned.
Sandwiched between the two polar zones was the former tropics—now the only real habitable zone for what remained of humanity, and the ongoing battlefield between the three main survivor states. What was once most of Brazil and Peru, up to Central America now composed the Pan-American Cartel, a mixture of North American refugee camps and narco-republics. What remained of Europe’s refugees were now to be found in central Africa, subjects of the People’s Democratic Republic of EuroEquatoria. Except for the smattering of warlords, pirate fleets and Jihadist guerrillas on the fringes, the rest of the world from Northern Australia to the Tropic of Cancer line formed the NeoSoviet Confederation.
The interior of the ruined building was lit only by the gaping holes chewed out by rust in the corrugated metal ceiling. The gray sunlight filtering down reminded him of third-degree interrogation spotlights. As he continued past the scatterings of debris and bones to the rear of the structure, the beady red light of a closed-circuit camera—the only sign of any life—tracked his approach.
“Identify yourself,” a scratchy voice demanded from an unseen intercom. He held up the travel documents toward the camera.
“Doctor-Colonel János Mehta. On order from the Central Directorate.”
That will expedite things, he thought. Sure enough, a succession of clanking sounds followed immediately. First, a crack of light appeared on the decrepit wall, then the hidden door slid open to reveal an elevator. He stepped in, and the door rumbled to a close again. There were no buttons to press. It might as well have been a coffin.
The ride was no more encouraging, the old electric motor struggling all the way down until at last coming to a jerky stop at the bottom with a rusty squeal and a loud thump. The door slid sullenly open on a plain cement corridor, a mounted .50 caliber heavy gauss coilgun hanging from the ceiling at the far end, tracking his position. Below it a door opened and two armed sentries emerged. They saluted before taking their position on either side of the doorway. Mehta approached them, unconcerned.
“Doctor-Colonel,” the lead sentry greeted him with a second salute. Mehta regarded him coolly before answering.
“I take it your security team noted my arrival.”
“Yes, sir.” The soldier nodded.
“So you understand I am not here on a routine medical check-up.”
“Doctor-Colonel?” the sentry asked nervously.
“Just Colonel will suffice.” He flashed his Directorate Internal Security badge, adding, “See to it no one exits the facility.”
* * *
Mehta breezed into the reactor room, as carefree as a visitor popping in to ask for directions to the bathrooms. The murky interior managed to be both cavernous and claustrophobic, lit by bare light bulbs and a few racks of sputtering fluorescent tubes. Multiple levels of grated metal walkways and ladders surrounded a gigantic cobbled-together monstrosity of towering machinery, laser arrays, and actuators, interspersed by a chaotic and bewildering network of pipes, tubes, and power cables.
So this was Brahmastra.
Technicians in lab coats and hard hats, armed with pencils and clipboards, monitored its many dials and instrument panels, tending to their creation’s needs. On the main deck, such as it was, stood a cramped office space containing little more than a dilapidated steel desk and a chalkboard covered in cabalistic mathematical formulae. An older Asian man sat at the desk, banging away on a typewriter.
The secret policeman strode right up, smiling. “Are you Chief Engineer Tsan? My name is Mehta. I’ve been sent here from Darwin Military Hospital to distribute the new counteroffensive vaccines.”
Startled, the chief engineer turned on him.
“You can’t come in here! Who let you in? This is a double-black level security area!” He reached for the button to the security intercom.
“That’s quite alright,” Mehta said. “Please feel free to check in with security. I’ll wait.” He stood by agreeably and patiently, hands folded over the med kit while Tsan confirmed that the pleasant—if dim—medic’s presence was duly authorized in the high-security restricted area.
“Alright, you bastard,” Tsan said with grudging acceptance. “I don’t know how a run allows you clearance, but you’ve stayed long enough. Drop the vaccines off with our political officer and I’ll take them in his presence. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure he signs off on them.”
Mehta shook his head. “I’ll explain, but this is for your ears only.”
Tsan frowned. Leaning over a railing, he shouted down to his crew.
“Everyone out!”
Mehta waited patiently until he was sure all the men and women had cleared the room, doors clicking shut behind them. Then he gave Tsan a sheepish smile.
“Look, I’m terrible at lying,” he lied, “so let me be completely honest with you. These vaccines aren’t from Darwin—they’re from the Central Directorate in Singapore, earmarked for crucial personnel only. My orders are to administer each personally, perform a few brief check-ups for no more than a few minutes, and then leave you to your important work. I know how busy you are, and how critical this project is.” He pulled out his cover papers and presented them for inspection.
* * *
Tsan had a fine-tuned sense of suspicion—an occupational requirement for a man operating at his level of military secrecy. None of this felt right, but the paperwork was in order, and the man’s very presence here—at this ultra-top-secret facility—was a persuasive point in his favor.
“Alright,” he grumbled. “Let’s get this over with. Just don’t start asking questions, and forget everything you’ve already seen here.”
“Of course. I’m not here to check up on your project—or on you,” Mehta said again amiably. “Except on a strictly medical basis, that is.” He chuckled.
Tsan did not laugh with him.
* * *
Doctor-Colonel Mehta made sure the chief was seated comfortably, then tore open a paper package, removed a cotton ball, soaked it in alcohol, and swabbed off a spot on the chief engineer’s jugular. The injector pistol was the size and shape of a modest handgun. He loaded the necessary ampule, and stood uncomfortably close to his patient while he lined up the injector’s needle and laid it upon his neck, dimpling the skin.
“Now, this may sting,” he said gently before he pulled the trigger. Tsan flinched and made a muffled grunt of pain. Mehta remained where he was, watching carefully to make sure the compound took full effect. When he was satisfied, he removed one more instrument from his case. It looked much like an otoscope a physician would use to examine ear canals. He ran its light back and forth over the man’s eyes for a few passes, until the pupils achieved the receptive state he desired.
“Now then, let’s check up on your project.”
Tsan stared at him in furious disbelief, reaching
for the security intercom. “That’s it—you’re a dead man!”
“Stop,” Mehta murmured softly. Tsan instantly lowered his hand.
“Now, tell me about your project.”
* * *
The man’s voice was preternaturally calm. Beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead. Much to his horror, Tsan found himself speaking openly, his will unraveling.
“Our goal is a new super-weapon—not a bomb or a missile, but a device that simply opens and releases the destructive energy of a subatomic field, at any point on earth we desire—”
Mehta held up a hand and Tsan stopped.
“I know all this already. Don’t try to sell me on Brahmastra. The Directorate is very dubious about your project.”
“Listen to me, please,” Tsan begged. “If you have any pull with resource allocations, you must tell them we can do this—we just need a little more time with modest computational support and—”
“Save your breath,” Mehta snapped. “None of that is important anymore.”
“You don’t understand—”
“No, Tsan, it’s you who doesn’t understand.” Mehta leaned in. “I already know what you have accomplished here.”
“Accomplished?” Tsan shook his head. “No, not yet, but it’s possible that we are rapidly approaching the stage where we can trigger the field effect—”
“It’s more than possible. I’ve seen the energy signature coming off the lab—it’s ready now.”
“Yes, ready to generate the field effect somewhere within the planet’s gravity well, with a possible margin of error of plus or minus six kilometers from the planet’s surface,” Tsan admitted. “But before we can do that, we have to find a way to target the field effect in three-dimensional space. Without a way to mathematically convert the quantum loci into coherent four-dimensional vertices, we can’t translate into latitude and longitude coordinates. This is why we need the computer support.”
Mehta pulled a slim metal case out of his med kit.
“Then you’re a lucky man, Chief.” He brusquely shoved the typewriter out of the way, setting a laptop on the desk. Its holographic screen was grainy and ghostly, but Tsan stared at it enviously. It was over a century more advanced than the tech level his team was obliged to use. Only their political officer had access to a personal computer.
* * *
The doctor-colonel took a moment to connect to Brahmastra’s mainframes and pulled up a screen of scrolling numbers. He turned to Tsan, who looked over his shoulder in astonishment.
“Can you make sure this is the kind of translation program you require?”
Tsan put on his eyeglasses and craned his head forward to see. Mehta watched the reflections of the numbers roll down, reflected in the thick lenses. The man was stunned—a solitary tear ran down his cheek.
“It’s all here… But where did—how did—?”
“This is what the Brunei team has been working on for the last two years.”
“Extraordinary. We should compare notes with them.”
“No, we’ll proceed immediately with the next stage of the project.”
“But to be certain…”
“I’m afraid it’s impossible, Chief. The Brunei team has been liquidated.”
Tsan backed away from him.
“You’re… a murderer,” he said flatly.
Mehta stared at him with a bemused look, and laughed.
“Of course not. I stopped being a murderer long ago. Now I am a hero. That, my friend, is the interesting thing about murder—if you commit enough of them, you stop being a murderer and become a defender of the people, their savior, their king.” He stood up.
“Now sit down and watch while we end the war.”
* * *
Tsan stopped backing away and froze in place. Though he urged his body to turn and run for the door, he couldn’t move his legs. Or his arms. Or any other muscle, apart from his frightened, shifting eyes. Instead he watched in horror as his hijacked body did as Mehta commanded.
His captor walked over to the Brahmastra’s master control console and powered up the activation sequence. The weapon thrummed to life, causing the entire chamber to vibrate and the metal walkways to hum. The doctor-colonel turned to his prisoner.
“Chief Engineer, I’ll let you pick. Who do we take out first—Lima or Nairobi?”
Tsan was helpless as a fly caught in amber. Even while terrified, however, with every nerve burning to escape his puppeteer, Tsan found himself considering the question carefully.
“The greatest threat… at present… is Euro-Equatoria…”
“Excellent choice,” Mehta nodded in approval. “Not that the Cartel will have long to wait their turn, but first, I think we need to start closer to home… with the Central Directorate.” The doctor-colonel keyed in the proper coordinates for Singapore—their own NeoSoviet capital—and then lifted the protective glass cowling over the activation button, pressing it.
* * *
A deep low drone began to rise, like the peal from a massive Buddhist funeral bell. The resulting thrumming resonated in their bones and teeth, making them ache. Mehta watched the console indicators with meticulous, unflinching attention while he punched up the coordinates for the other capital megacities and activated Brahmastra fields for them, as well.
In a few seconds, it was done.
Striding quickly over to his laptop he brought up satellite views of Singapore, Nairobi, and Lima—just in time to watch each panel of the split screen suddenly flare to blinding light, one after another, as all three world capitals vaporized. Then the man who had just annihilated more than 180 million people in less than a minute turned back to Tsan, who looked up at him with wet, horror-struck eyes.
“Mission accomplished, Chief Engineer Tsan. Mission accomplished. Take pride in that.” Mehta looked thoughtful, and then reached over to the security intercom.
“This is Mehta. Proceed with station clean-up.” From outside the reactor chamber came the sounds of automatic arms fire… and screams. Mehta turned back to Tsan.
“Now, if you can,” he said gently, “I want you to try to stop your heart from beating. If you can’t, don’t worry, that’s all right. But I am going to need you to exhale once, and then forego any more inhaling, starting now.”
* * *
Tsan obeyed. The doctor-colonel observed him intently for an agonizingly long time. Tsan couldn’t even turn his head to avoid the man’s eyes, his unblinking gaze like that of a cobra.
Over the somber drone of Brahmastra, Tsan could hear the isolated bursts of gunfire and the shrieks of his dying team. His chest began to constrict, but he could do nothing to stop it.
Then at last the engineer’s eyes began to flutter and his immobilized body began to twitch, flowing into a series of quivering spasms.
* * *
A flashing red light appeared on the master console, pulsing for attention. Mehta left Tsan to his death throes and moved to see what was the matter.
The readings were puzzling. The three fields had been initiated and terminated in slightly less than a microsecond. Yet if he was reading the indications correctly, there were still energy readings for all three—in fact, for a whole cluster of field signals. The drone of the device seemed to be growing louder.
He felt fear for the first time that day. Was Brahmastra sending out destruction fields at random? Was this some kind of unforeseen chain reaction? He looked back at Tsan, but the engineer was dead, slumped in the chair with his head lolled back.
A spectral beam of violet light shone from a port on the machine. Alarmed, Mehta peered into the small window.
It was almost like staring into a telescope—a tunnel, with a thousand tiny stars rising up from the depths and streaming toward him. And then all of it burst into pure light. He screamed.
* * *
Mehta stumbled out of the concealed elevator, uncertain of how he had gotten there, and staggered through the dead warehouse. Outside, the sky was ablaze
with a brilliant sun in a sky of brighter blue than he had ever seen in his life. The fresh perfumed air was stifling hot, filled with birdsong, a chorus of insects, and the roar of a tiger.
His cold hilltop was now a dismal gray island surrounded by a verdant planet, the entire countryside covered in riotous greenery as far as he could see. No trace remained of Jakarta’s skyscrapers or grimy, crowded refugee domes, but he thought he could make out the stone towers of a Buddhist temple. A trumpeting sound came from below. Just down the hill, a herd of elephants strolled through a riverbed.
He was in another world.
* * *
He spent the first day in shock, trying to understand what had happened. After three days, Mehta decided the Garden of Eden was Hell.
True, the wildlife and lush flora had been diverting at first, but the ever-present insects and wet, tropic humidity were as maddening as they were inescapable.
He wandered for hours through the dingy, deserted corridors of the lab, unable to fathom where the soldiers were hiding, or what they had done with the corpses of Tsan and the rest of the facility’s staff. In the pock-marked walls he could see the signs of their recent gunfire, but not so much as a drop of blood anywhere. Hours passed, and he couldn’t stop staring into the scuffed metal mirror at the nurse’s station, morbidly fascinated by whatever had happened to his eyes. At least it didn’t seem to have damaged his vision.
The facility’s radio room proved useless, not that he expected anything better. In fact, the only “treasure” he managed to find was the late political officer’s private stash of contraband liquor, a manila envelope of pornographic blackmail pictures, and a box of high-end Cartel cigars.
Discovering the hidden cache did nothing for Mehta, however. He prided himself on having no vices.
* * *
Mehta spent restless nights in the political officer’s abandoned quarters, and frustrating days trying to solve the mystery of what had become of his world. In the late hours he would pace the metal decks of the Brahmastra’s gloomy reactor room, resisting the temptation to destroy more parts of the globe, just out of sheer boredom.
