Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

  Only a very few blimps were on the ground, though. Most were airborne, all preparing to fly into the Citadel.

  She jogged up beside Ashminov.

  “What took you so long?” he asked.

  “Pick up the pace!”

  Mindful that Ashminov was no athlete, she grabbed his hand, careful not to pull too hard, or else his legs might give out. The synthetic skin had cooled the fire on her arms and neck, but she was in no condition to carry him. She aimed them toward a small cluster of blimps, tethered at the far end of the port. They looked like a pod of silver whales—a mother and her four calves. The largest was a craft twice the size of a soccer field and half as tall, used for software transmissions and video surveillance. The much smaller observation blimps, a mere five meters long, seated two.

  Ashminov tripped on a magnetic tie-down, and she helped him to his feet. “Come on! Twenty seconds.” They had fifty meters to go.

  There was a loud metallic pop, and the giant transmission blimp rose. Three more pops followed in quick succession. One by one, the observation blimps lifted from their tie-downs.

  With five meters to go, Raissa let go of Ashminov’s hand and with a furious final burst of energy, raced to the pilot’s side of the cockpit. “Hurry,” she shouted breathlessly, realizing Ashminov had Caleb’s messenger, which would allow them to fly the blimp. She heard a loud pop as she scrambled up the steps. She flung the door open and launched herself in. Her legs dangled outside.

  The copilot's door opened, and Ashminov's hand appeared. Scrabbling forward, she lunged and grabbed it as he was slipping. She held on while the blimp floated higher. Then she swung her left leg up and gained purchase with her knee on the doorframe. From there, she jackknifed her bent leg until she could get her hips onto the ledge. With a final thrust, she pulled herself inside. Rallying every bit of her strength, she hoisted Ashminov with both hands. His face appeared, and she let go of his wrist and seized his shoulder to haul him in by his shirt. With him lending muscle to the effort, she got him into the cockpit. They collapsed in their seats, panting. Ashminov held Caleb's messenger.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Saunders,” the blimp said. “Would you like auto-mode or manual?”

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 02

  Beneath a dome of black, Caleb stood on a thick carpet of rose petals that stretched to the horizon. Is their odor masking my death? Or am I dreamin? How can I wake myself up? Raissa and Ashminov need my help.

  Raissa appeared before him, and he fixed his eyes on her face. Reaching out to her, he rested his hand on her cheek. He no longer wanted to awaken, but rather live in this dream forever, peering into the green eyes of the girl he loved.

  Her face burst into flames, and then she vanished, leaving him with singed fingertips.

  Immediately, a young girl spoke. “Daddy, I’m afraid.” Caleb’s heart contracted. The voice had come from behind him, and he turned to see Fern standing there. Can this be real? Fern is only data.

  Fern, standing in a light that had no source, wore a white dress. “Don’t be afraid,” he told her.

  “Mommy will hurt me.”

  Caleb shuddered. “Nobody will hurt you.” He wanted to comfort her, but how were you supposed to comfort lines of code? What can you say to an uncompiled program? But Fern was more than software. She was a little girl who had touched his heart in ways he couldn’t explain.

  He walked up to her and put his arms around her. She was at once fragile and strong, and their hearts beat as one. “Fern, are you still afraid?”

  Cheek against his chest, she shook her head.

  Her love poured into him. How long can I hold her? He hoped forever.

  Fern disappeared from his arms as if someone had pressed a key to delete her. He cried out in sorrow, his mournful wail serving as the score for the surreal clips playing in the theater of his mind. Thousands of pink raisins with Eden Chips floated down like snowflakes as Dr. Joyce jotted notes in her messenger. Waves of rats, wanting to retrieve their brains, stampeded with gnashing teeth and tails whipping. They scampered up his leg. He plucked them off and tossed them aside as fast as he could.

  “Caleb, please don’t hate me.” Zoe stood a meter away, cradling Julian in her arms.

  “I could never hate you. Where are we?”

  “This is Paradise.” Zoe held out Julian and added, “Go to Uncle Caleb.”

  Julian slipped through Caleb’s hands, and they both tumbled into a dark void. Caleb struck a cold metal surface, and he cried out, feeling as if he had broken every bone in his body. With tears running down his face, he lay limp in the dark.

  “Blood pressure?” The voice sounded close.

  “170 over 90, Dr. Mars.”

  Mars? Gabriel Mars? Caleb strained to see. The muscles around his eye sockets quivered as he broke the seal of blisters welding his lids.

  Other voices blended into a blur of medical chatter.

  “Pulse?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Four CCs of Burst.”

  “Pain factor?”

  “Rising.”

  “Dr. Mentenhoffer, keep an eye on it,” Mars replied. “We won’t be much longer.”

  I must be in the Citadel, receiving the best medical care in the world. Dr. Mars and his team would repair his damaged skin and restore him to good health.

  “He’s awakening,” Mars said. “Dr. Mentenhoffer, two CC’s of Fade.”

  Caleb redoubled his effort to see. Pinpricks of light burst through his lids. His eyes snapped open. Mars and two paladin surgeons in scrubs—an older man, and a woman in her twenties—looked down at him. Mars, with his long blond curls bunched into a surgical cap, towered over the others.

  “Adam, do you remember that research project of mine, Beyond Eden?” Mars asked.

  He remembered it well. Concealing half a million deaths is hard to forget.

  “They sacrificed their lives in the name of science,” Mars said, as if Caleb had told him that. The tall paladin then put his face close to Caleb’s. “That explains the need for Eve’s neurons.”

  “No,” Caleb tried to shout, but the short man pressed an injector under Caleb’s chin, and his world turned dark and silent.

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 03

  “Dr. Saunders, would you like auto-mode or manual?” the blimp repeated.

  Fearful that his gut might twist into a permanent knot if he looked out the window, Ashminov kept his eyes shut. “Blimp, auto-mode.”

  “What is your destination?” the blimp asked.

  “The Citadel,” he said.

  “Citadel airspace is off limits, Dr. Saunders.”

  “What do we do now?” Raissa asked.

  “When the assault begins, the guidance system will take over. Before that happens, we need to get closer.” He issued a new instruction. “Blimp, New Fenway Park.”

  “The baseball stadium is on the waterfront, near the Citadel,” he told Raissa.

  The solar motor at the stern hummed to life, and he leaned back. The seat harness extended across his lap and chest, offering a false sense of comfort that wouldn’t last long. “Raissa, tell me what you see.”

  “The Citadel is about three kilometers away.

  “We're heading east-southeast at twelve knots.

  “We’re passing over the Charles River at 300 meters elevation. The other blimps are turning toward the Citadel.”

  She grabbed his hand, her nails digging into his skin. “I can see an enlightenment wall. It has a spinning globe, covered mostly in red.”

  Ashminov swallowed hard. “Petrov is showing the progression of the devourware. I’m sure he’ll advertise the ricinware drifting their way, too, a countdown clock to death.”

  They rode in tense silence for a while. “I can see inside the Citadel,” she said eventually. “In the southwest corner, there’s a rocket on the launch pad. White steam is rising from the base.”

  Knowing Petrov as he did, Ashminov could see the logic of the rocket. Blast into orbit.
Let the Paladins clean up the mess, kill them, and then wait for the bacteria and carrion to consume the remaining corpses. After that, he’d return to Earth 2.0, the planet pristine and uninhabited.

  “Petrov’s garden takes up three-quarters of the area,” Raissa continued. “There's a building with a white roof in the middle. I don't see any roads or paths leading to it.”

  “A lab, maybe?” Ashminov offered.

  “There’s a cluster of four buildings outside the garden and next to them is a mound of dirt with a large satellite dish.”

  He pumped his fist. “That’s where we want to go! The transmission server will be close to the dish.”

  “How do we land near there?”

  He did not know how to break the bad news to her. “Land” implied a gentle touchdown and meant that they would have the ability to navigate. But instead, they would have no control of the blimp. The other blimps would jostle and bump them, and if they were lucky enough to crash in thick vegetation, it might allow them to walk away in one piece.

  “We have no control over how or where we land,” he admitted. “When the attack comes, we’ll hold back and let the rest of the fleet absorb most of the Citadel’s firepower. We’ll join the second wave.”

  “Blimp, manual-mode,” Raissa commanded.

  “Blimp, auto-mode,” Ashminov spat out. “Have you ever flown one?” He knew the answer, but he hoped his comment would drive home the point that they should stick with auto-mode.

  “How hard can it be?”

  He realized that Raissa operated with a level of confidence he would never experience.

  “Blimp, manual mode,” she said.

  “Manual-mode engaged, Dr. Saunders. Enjoy your flight.”

  * * *

  A tear trickled down Raissa’s cheek. She had fought to contain her grief, but the repeated mention of his name broke her resolve. While ‘Dr. Saunders’ implied an impassionate NanoArtisans scientist, Caleb lived in her heart as a sweet, caring nerd with a big nose who had sacrificed his life trying to save the world. A hot flare of anger vaporized the pooling tears in her eyes. I’m not responsible for his death; Petrov is.

  With one more reason to ensure they touched down safely inside the Citadel so that they could kill Petrov, Raissa scanned the instrument panel, ready to begin her pilot’s training. If she could steer the blimp and control its altitude, she could at least aim them toward the target.

  She pulled the joystick back, and they climbed. Forward, the nose dipped. When the blimp vibrated from excessive speed, she leveled out, and the vibration ended.

  “Flying is easy,” she said, in part because she believed it, and, in part to soothe Ashminov’s jitters. He was squeezing his eyes shut. From this point onward until they touched down, he was useless

  She pushed a button marked “Power Boost” and they shot forward as if fired from a slingshot.

  “Hey,” Ashminov cried out.

  “Sorry.” She pushed another button marked “Air Brake.” Her upper torso pressed forward against the chest restraint as they decelerated. “I think I've worked it all out now, Ashminov. Don't worry, I'll get us there.”

  “Raissa?”

  “What?” She looked over at him, curious.

  Ashminov paused a long moment. “I’m glad we’re partners.”

  Raissa swallowed past the obstruction in her throat caused by frustrating memories; their history together had been challenging, but she was glad he was by her side. “Me, too.”

  “Please tell me what’s happening.”

  “Thousands of blimps are circling the Citadel. It’s not exactly a surprise attack.” She eyed the blimp’s radio mic and smiled wryly. “Maybe I should call Petrov and announce we’re on our way.”

  Ashminov gasped. “Why would you do that?”

  Detecting ironic humor was not one of Ashminov’s unique talents. “Forget it,” she said. “I’ll fly outside the main ring of blimps until they go in. The assault begins in thirty seconds.” She pushed power boost and steered closer to the river of silver in the sky.

  When they were within a few meters of the outer perimeter of blimps, she hit the brakes. “All the blimps are in position. Are you ready to lay siege?”

  The muscles in Ashminov’s face tightened.

  “Ten seconds. Nine…eight…seven…” She counted down to one and whooped with furious enthusiasm. Ashminov, grimacing in terror, gripped his armrests. The blimps turned and glided toward the fortress. The sudden thunder of cannons greeted them.

  Sonic waves obliterated the lead blimps, their tattered fabric fluttering to the ground like drunken butterflies. Some blimps rocketed up at strange angles, powered by the rush of helium through puncture wounds. Others fell in a downward trajectory, bumping into the walls and the cannons, and collapsing on impact. The weapons were deadly accurate.

  “The second wave is closing in,” she shouted above the cacophony.

  “Are any blimps making it past the cannons?” he cried.

  And the lasers? “Some,” she lied.

  His teeth chattered. “Raissa, are they landing?”

  Yes, in little pieces. “Ashminov, it’s just like the Bracken Cave. The bats are overwhelming the hawks.”

  He sat back as taught facial muscles relaxed for the moment.

  Aiming for the satellite dish, she pushed the joystick to the left and forward. They picked up speed.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re going in for a smooth landing,” she said, thinking a positive attitude was best.

  A piercing alarm sounded, joined soon by a robotic voice. “Collision, collision, collision.” Both sounds almost drowned out Ashminov's screams. The cockpit darkened and rotated. Blood rushed to Raissa's head, then to her feet. She pushed, pulled and punched every control knob and lever, to no avail.

  A sonic blast shattered the windshield, peppering her face with carbonite fragments, and she blinked to clear the blood seeping into her eyes.

  “Pressure warning,” the voice blared. “Pressure warning.”

  “Do something, Raissa!”

  You do something!

  They shot straight up. Motionless at the top of the trajectory, a hail of laser bullets punched through the cockpit floor, and Ashminov gripped his left thigh.

  “I’m hit.” Eyes open now, he pulled his hands back. The bullet had pierced muscle and bone just above his knee, leaving a bloodless hole that you could see through to the other side.

  Raissa’s restraints dug into her chest as the blimp dove straight down. The blast of sweet-smelling garden air rushing through the cracked windshield flattened eyeballs and puffed out cheeks. Halfway to impact with the ground, another blimp struck them, and they lurched to the side.

  For a second, Raissa caught a view of the alleged lab. “We're about two hundred meters south of the lab and east of the satellite building. We’re going down hard. Brace yourself!”

  She doubted Ashminov heard her above the wail of warning messages because she couldn't hear her own voice. The ground rushed up at them, a kaleidoscope of silver and green filling her vision, and then a bang.

  Raissa catapulted into a black, silent void.

  * * *

  Ashminov opened his eyes to cries of “Collision warning…Collision warning…” They were on the ground, drilled into a cocoon of greenery and earthy odors. Branches impaled what remained of the cockpit.

  The battle in the sky raged on, but the cannon fire had lessened from the earlier barrage that had pounded his eardrums. Judging by the tatters of silver fabric draping the trees, the rules of nature may not have applied to this assault. The hawks had triumphed, eating their fill and then some.

  He powered down the electronics, which released his harness and silenced the blimp's voice. Turning to Raissa, he saw blood streaming down her face. A thorny vine protruding inside the cockpit had ripped a gash in her forehead. Embedded in her face were slivers from the shattered windshield.

  “Raissa.”

&nbs
p; She didn't respond.

  He called her name louder. No response. To see if she was breathing, he leaned in closer to her, but a stabbing pain in his knee surged with a vengeance. The laser bullet had cauterized the vessels, so there was no blood.

  He pushed the door open and tumbled into a bed of feathery ferns. He struggled to his feet and, dragging his wounded leg behind him, limped around the caved-in nose of the blimp. The pilot’s door was missing.

  He reached in and checked Raissa’s wrist. She had a weak pulse. When he put his ear close to her nose and mouth, he heard only faint, random hisses of breath. She needed solid oxygen pellets to prevent brain damage. The blimp must have a first aid kit.

  He hobbled around inside the wreckage, trying to locate it, but the vegetation was too thick, and he quickly abandoned the idea.

  He picked up a broadleaf and ripped it in half using his teeth. One half he applied to Raissa's forehead to stem the bleeding. It remained in place, stuck to her wounds. The other half he used to mop the blood off her face.

  He checked her pulse and breathing again. Both vital functions had worsened. She required medical attention he could not provide.

  Will Petrov allow his Eve to die unceremoniously among the wreckage? Ashminov didn't think so. He unbuttoned the bottom of her shirt and unclipped her explosives belt. He coaxed it off and buckled it around his waist. Then he pulled the joule from her waistband and tucked it into his rear pocket. In her condition, she wouldn’t be able to use the belt or her weapon.

  He returned to the co-pilot’s side and found Caleb’s messenger. After identifying their GPS coordinates, he reached for the blimp’s radio mic, brought it to his lips, and depressed the button. “Raissa needs urgent medical attention.” He gave their coordinates, confident that paladins, and maybe even Petrov, were monitoring the radio frequencies. He keyed the mic once more. “Eve is dying. You’d better hurry.”

  Ashminov glanced at Raissa a final time. She was turning blue, which gave her facial scar a purplish tint, but she didn’t seem in pain. While he would never bet against the Jerusalem rebel, the odds of her continuing the mission were close to zero.