by Russ Linton
Shit, that's a long time. Dad wouldn't be in a freezer that long, would he? Did they bury him already? I grip the mask tighter. He wouldn't worry about the dead. He'd stay on task, on mission.
"I saw Hound and Danger. Why are they here? What happens to them?"
"Danger's a ghost," she replies, a little too knowledgeable for just a lawyer. "Nobody in the private sector knows who or what he is. Hound? He's got friends in Defense. They'll be given a choice. Active duty or more prison."
"Is this the same deal for Polybius and..." Probably too much to hope the pause isn't noticeable, but I have to find out about Mom. "Charlotte?"
"Charlotte escaped," she says slowly. "We're assuming Polybius went with her. She'll be a priority target once we—"
The door cracks open. A soldier leans inside. "We've had a surge in the western quadrant. Power goes down in twenty minutes. If you want to see the judge, it's now or never."
THE COURT REPORTER's hands are a blur on her keys, eyes wide. Prisoners and guards alike have gathered close, pressing the banister. At least one girl who might be an actual reporter is in the gallery scribbling notes and reflexively groping for a phone which sits dead in her bag.
I try to approach, stammering nonsensical words, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. Ayana, the bodyguard, right behind me. Up close the scarring on her face has nothing on the intimidation factor of her dead stare.
"Mr. Alexander," breathes the Judge, "is what your counsel says, true?"
Three months I've been in jail. Any actual investigation of the theater incident must have been impossible. It took that entire time for the government to even find their Augments, Hound and Danger. There's no public truth for what happened besides what I utter today. The Whispering Pines crew, my father, they're all set up to take the blame.
But as fucked up as this story is, she's right. Augments caused this. They can't ever simply have an argument to work out their differences. They come to blows, and people die. Entire cities fall. This can't be allowed to continue. And there's one Augment out there I have yet to bring to justice. I can't go back to jail. I need to fix this for good and Xamse has the tools necessary to make that happen.
"Yes, your honor. It's true."
WE RACE AWAY FROM THE courthouse in a blacked-out car. Warranted or not, Ayana's skills at intimidation are honed by whatever events likely scarred her face. Hurtling into the pitch black of a dead city, my lawyer reaches into her pocket and hands me a phone.
"What's this?"
"Nanomech has the only active cell network in the country. It's available strictly to employees and government personnel."
Numb, I start to feel my way around the familiar presence of technology. Standard chipsets, custom operating system, the phone is fully loaded with copious system memory, storage and I'd guess, those little nanos. Without thinking, I put in Emily's number. An out of service message comes over the earpiece loud enough the lawyer glances my way.
"Like I said, the entire network has been taken offline and switched to emergency use only. Once you have access to a wireless connection, you'll be able to use FreedomNet."
FreedomNet? Fuck, how shattered is this once-digital world? I don't know how long I stare at the screen before an alert announces an incoming text.
"I guess the boss..." I trail off as I read the first few lines. Ayana's eyes fall on me in the rearview, and the lawyer gives a puzzled look. I finish reading the text and roll down the window. Sim card ejected, I send the phone into the darkness.
"What was that for?" exclaims the lawyer.
"Your official-use-only network has been compromised," I say.
Ayana tightens her grip on the steering wheel. "The Collective."
"Don't worry, I know exactly how to deal with them."
She barks a short laugh. "We've had every employee assigned to containing their unique AI threat. Don't make promises you can't keep."
"She isn't an AI. Chroma's a singularity," I say. "And she's got one weakness. Me."
CHAPTER 4
JACKIE LOUNGED ON A pile of sandbags, no longer able to ignore three weeks of trail funk. Today was an unusually humid day in the mountains of Afghanistan. The damp air formed an oppressive weight against her barrier of sweat and grime. She grabbed a fistful of sand and trickled it on her arm watching it stick before she scraped it away.
"Semi-arid my ass," she groaned, a bit too loud. It was too early in this assignment to be thinking about a decent shower.
"What's wrong, Jack? Tired of sitting still already? Need some action?" Franklin asked as he launched into a series of vicious pelvic thrusts. "Uh! Uh!" he grunted as the rest of the company laughed. She considered raising her camera and capturing the moment. Maybe she'd see if she could get him on the cover of Time with his "o" face.
Instead of a picture, she tossed a rock into his crotch, and he went down. Genuine pain mixed in with his laughter as he curled into a fetal position. Good, she thought. Dork.
"Man down!" shouted Miguel, quickly piling on top and adding his own series of rapid thrusts. Hispanic kid, he never showed his teeth when he smiled. An impish smirk, or in this case, a comically fierce scowl as he laid into his squad mate.
She scoffed. This little Hallmark moment of soldiers dry humping in the dirt several kilometers over the front lines did earn a photo. None of the men seemed to care. Boys, really. Boys with the backing of the world's most formidable army.
"Your gun doesn't do it for me, Frank," she said. He hated being called Frank.
"Too small a caliber?" quipped Donovan. He always tried to bring his obsession with the 50 cal into conversations.
Jackie stole a shot of him next as he half-smiled. Youngest one here, the soldier still had baby cheeks. He'd loosened up but maintained a glower which made for an interesting juxtaposition. Old before his time. Jackie understood that.
These men, boys, they were killers. She had plenty of photos to testify. Outside the wire or when in contact with the enemy, they were professionals. But idle too long behind these temporary walls, their true age showed. Those pictures made good press back home. People could see their boys still being boys even when asked to do the unthinkable.
But she knew the quiet desperation which haunted the frames of every manic episode.
Jacobs, their squad leader, bore down on the group. "Enough grab ass. Captain's coming." In the middle of a firefight, he'd spend his time making sure everybody was loaded, on target, and not bleeding from adrenaline-masked wounds. Always babysitting.
Jackie could relate to Jacobs even more than Donovan. Only in her babysitting, a steady emptying of beer cans had replaced the clatter of empty brass. Her hand wandered to a film canister strung on around her neck like a pendant.
The squad had gathered for a briefing in the central portion of their forward operating base. Mortared cinder blocks of the command post guarded one side while a steep slope covered the rear. Combat netting and a torn parachute provided concealment and shade.
As protected as they were, nobody saluted the Captain. This deep in the shit, Jackie knew singling out the leadership was a bad idea. Too many snipers.
Captain Perrino took a quick inventory of the gathering. The guy was a regular G.I. Joe; a sculpted chin straight out of a 1940's cigarette ad and a tapered build. He mostly kept to his command post.
When she'd first arrived, they'd briefly spoken. He'd squinted, said "Jack? That your name?" clearly surprised by her gender. When she nodded, he shrugged. "Show our reporter to their quarters," he'd told Donovan.
To their quarters. Shaved head, slender build, "Jack" had been a nickname she'd picked up in Iraq on her first assignment. She'd earned the name, not adopted it as a precursor to gender assignment surgery. Fucking prick.
Even so, it wasn't like she hid her femininity. Downplayed, sure. It wasn't on display for these bros.
She'd had trouble with soldiers on occasion. Syria, Ethiopia, Libya, Iraq—she'd seen her share of war zones—but her biggest proble
ms came from fellow reporters.
Discipline sometimes kept soldiers in check. Lone civilians with press credentials? Half were in it for their ego which they felt needed a good stroke after racing into combat, unarmed. Affirmations of life, or whatever rationalization, led to some serious debauchery. Press quarters were sticky with hook ups and spilled beer.
Most of the men knew she wasn't their type. Some required more than a playful pebble to the groin to get the picture.
Earlier in the day, the Captain had approached her to mention he had news. In his characteristic fashion, he'd been incredibly uninformative. Briefing time and location had been all he gave her. Not like she had anywhere else to be.
The anticipation Perrino managed to stir up always made for good film—unguarded reactions, stumbles in the alpha male displays, and those manic outbursts born of raw nerves. She didn't relish the soldiers' uncertainty, only knew her job required her to capture it.
Besides, maybe today Perrino would confirm her own suspicions. Validation for the entire reason she'd been hopping from warzone to warzone was long overdue. Jackie raised her digital camera.
"We've had a tough go of it out here, I won't lie," said the Captain. "And you've all performed beyond expectations."
The men's faces remained attentive, but confusion seeped into the shots. Captain Perrino was always sparing in his praise. Something big was brewing.
Augments, Jackie was sure of it. All super-powered humans eventually returned to their given purpose as weapons of the state. She'd already missed one sighting in Ukraine. Jamie, her editor, had assured her that little uprising had meant a full-fledged return of the living weapons to covert duty. What else could it be?
Coming to Afghanistan only made sense for Jackie. Certainly, the U.S. Government would send in their flying napalm artist, Ember. Jackie snapped a couple shots and prepared herself to hear the name. Her heart skipped.
"Oh nine hundred," said Perrino, "I received word from the Sergeant Major."
He sounded worried. Devastating weapons were on the way, and his own couldn't compete. Perrino and his daring forward base gambit would be outshined. She zoomed in, a portrait of stoic determination against the bleak stone backdrop. His expression went blank as he noted her new focus, spoiling the shot.
"We've been hit back home," continued Perrino, "and hit hard."
Jackie's lens captured the collective gut punch. Concern, even guilt materialized through the men's shock. Her hands worked autonomously, dialing in reciprocity, wondering how she could've been so wrong.
"What? How?" Franklin spoke before the Captain could even continue. No reprimand, Perrino raised a palm.
"We don't have many details. The attack itself doesn't appear to have caused any direct casualties, but at least fifteen states have lost power, maybe more."
Augments. She'd missed them. Again.
"Dammit," Jackie muttered, her camera dropping. Her outburst earned a few eyes, though the Captain continued speaking.
"Our bad news first. Any civilian use of communication channels is strictly limited. Cell coverage is out in most states and overloaded everywhere else. So no calls home tonight on the Defense Satellite Network." A collective murmur threatened the disciplined silence. "The good news, we've been called home."
"Who, sir?" asked Donovan.
"Everybody. Minimal personnel will remain deployed overseas to maintain a presence outside the U.S. None of you are on that list." An excited chatter began and Perrino raised his voice. "But this is not a vacation. We're being assigned to Operation Safeguard."
The chatter fell flat. Most of these guys had been dreaming about going home, counting down long deployments day to day, month to month. None could ignore the gravity of the sudden reversal.
"Pulling off this kind of exercise is going to require some patience. We've been asked to hold this position for the next two weeks while logistics are coordinated. Likely we'll be falling back slowly, and we'll be the last out of the valley." Perrino scanned the gathering intently. "But you will be going home. Until then, you'll get more ammo, you'll go out on patrol, just like any other day."
"Yes, sir," came the muddled reply.
"Do not let your guard down out there. The enemy will eventually hear we've been wounded. Might give them ideas. Dismissed."
Aside from Captain Perrino striding away into the sandbagged command post, nobody moved. Jackie followed him, unrestrained by discipline and freed by a need to be as nosy as possible. Her job, she reminded herself as she pushed through the tarp hanging over the low doorway.
"Captain," she called. He sunk behind his desk, not acknowledging her. "Was it Augments? Any idea which ones were involved?"
Perrino shifted a few papers and closed an open laptop. He laced his fingers and sat forward. In the past, she'd been able to earn the trust of base commanders. She knew from the others that she made Perrino uneasy. He was suspicious of any “untraditional life choice”, as Jacobs said he called it.
"You were at the briefing. You know what I know."
"I know what you're willing to tell your men," she insisted. She slung her camera over her shoulder, hoping to get him to relax. Most of the guys had long since moved past the invasiveness of her job. Perrino still made a tough subject, always hyperaware and impassive in front of the lens. "You've got to know more. Recalling everyone? Politicians back home have been trying to end this war for years, and now you're saying it's all over in a couple weeks?"
He sighed. "I don't have any details."
"Give me something. Or I'll just call my editor in New York and hear it from him." She made a gesture in the general direction of her bunk where she kept her own satellite phone.
"Best of luck," Perrino replied, reopening his laptop. "I wasn't lying when I said communications networks are overloaded back home."
"Then I'll call my Bureau Chief in London, or Istanbul. Somebody will know."
So far in her short career, she'd been escorted out of fledgling police stations under insurgent control, command posts for top military brass, even a Turkish embassy, before she clearly understood Turkey would've had every right to detain her indefinitely if they'd so chosen. Like those situations, she refused to oblige Perrino's obvious desire for her to disappear.
"None of this leaves this room," he sighed. "My men need two weeks to focus, and then we'll all be home. Don't, I repeat, don't make them worry any more than they already do."
"Got it, sir," Jackie said and eased her way into a chair.
"Only reason I'm telling you this is because if you can somehow reach your contacts in Europe or elsewhere and they have any information, I want it. Word from command wasn't exactly clear," he said, threatening her compliance with a steady stare. She nodded. "A massive power outage affected the Northern half of the U.S. yesterday, and emergency powers have been activated."
"What do you mean, emergency powers? Like a state of emergency in a natural disaster? National Guard, that sort of thing?"
Perrino shook his head. "The National Defense Preparedness Executive Order."
"Martial law?" she gasped.
Jackie remembered reading something about this from a paranoid columnist in an opinion piece. She recalled the extremist rant only because he'd tried to draw a connection between the newly signed order and the Killcreek debacle. Augments, according to his analysis, were supposed to be installed as de facto enforcers for a fascist state controlled out of Killcreek. He sounded like a guy off his meds, though parts of his interpretation of the Executive Order had checked out.
Perrino kept a level stare, neither denying or confirming. "We've got one more patrol going out in the morning. Landigal. It'll take us by the KOP before the shitstorm hits. You can be on the first bird out."
The offer caught her by surprise. It made sense. She didn't do this for the money, fame, ego, or even the undeniable rush. She'd done it to increase her chances of getting close to Augments. All she'd followed here was a hunch they'd been reactivated by the
government. But if so, would they send in their big guns to help pull out their troops? Had Augments been involved in whatever disaster unfolded back home? She didn't want to miss them again.
Deep down though, as she saw it, she was the only reporter left this far forward. At some point, she'd started to see this job as a calling and not just a way to deal with her own personal issues. Capturing the withdrawal start to finish wasn't optional.
"I'll stick it out," she said. "Whatever is happening back home will still be happening."
"Suit yourself."
She left the command post and jogged to her bunk. None of her calls stateside went through. Even when she tried London, only a busy signal escaped the snarled lines of traffic.
She fished a cigarette out of her camera bag and lit up. A solid pull, smoke filled her lungs, and she kept it there. She waited for the calming surge. The tapping of her foot intensified as she watched the cigarette smolder. Paper and tobacco consumed by fire; funny how they made her feel in control while slowly breaking her down. Story of my life, she thought. Exhaling, she flicked the butt to the dirt floor and ground it beneath her boot.
"We'll find her," she said to the film canister.
CHAPTER 5
JACKIE LEFT BEFORE dawn with Perrino, Jacobs, Franklin, and half a dozen other soldiers. The purpose of their patrol seemed to both be going about business as usual and an excuse for the Captain to stop by the main Korengal Outpost for further orders on the way back. Plus, their translator, Aazar needed to be put in the queue for evacuation. After this morning, they'd no longer need his services.
Aazar had been their lifeline. He spoke several of the regional dialects, some not known outside the valley. She was happy to see him offered a spot. She'd worried he'd be left behind to face a death sentence for aiding the infidels.
She'd gotten to know Aazar, and he'd graciously taught her some basic Pashto. She'd already learned Arabic both in school and on assignment around the Middle East. The languages had a handful of borrowed words but few other similarities. To pass the time, they quietly traded more phrases on the way to Landigal.
