by Russ Linton
A percussive wave of mortars joined gunfire outside, causing the tarps to shudder. Those had always seemed over the top, aimed at a bunch of goat herders with rifles and the occasional RPG. Until, that is, you felt certain you might die. Then no amount of ordinance was too much. Plus, she knew while those angry goat herders took cover, she'd have a clean run.
Swarms of bullets had been replaced by men rushing to change position or repair defenses. She paused long enough to take a few photos before descending into the trench. Jacobs had left the fire position. Perrino had moved to the open gun port, binoculars in one hand, the radio in the other. Franklin had stopped firing completely, his jaw loose and gun wafting smoke like a dying cigarette. She fumbled with the camera to swap out lenses.
Chatter on the radio sounded frantic. She heard a call out about a bogey. Then heavies. Shit, this was it! She'd been right, they'd sent in the Augments for the evac. No more covert games, no more chasing ghosts from one engagement to the next. The attack at home had erased all that.
Trembling, she missed the mount on the camera and had to start again, stuffing the 35mm lens in a pocket. She affixed the telephoto and adjusted her strap. More call outs on the radio and Jackie heard the word "she". Very few female Augments had come out of the program. Rumors of early accidents with the genetic experimentation were the talk of conspiracy theorists. The Soviets had better luck, but those had died or gone to ground. This had to be Ember.
Weight of the telephoto supported by one hand, camera body in the other, she pushed in close to Franklin. He didn't budge as her skin brushed his.
"It's her, isn't it?" she asked. "Ember."
Shock. Awe. She knew the feeling. She'd grown up watching the fiery dynamo until her Dad's inexplicable obsession became an inescapable hereditary condition. She'd hunted down every frame of publicly available footage and several minutes of highly classified film in a former professor's private collection. Finally finding the Augment made Jackie feel giddy on the edge of her adrenaline high.
But Jackie had to remind herself to tamp down the excitement. This wasn't a celebration. She had business with the bitch.
With her naked eye, she scanned the verdant slopes for signs of smoke, fire. Errant patches spewed greasy streamers where mortars or bombs had struck. Ember though, she'd burn brighter, hotter, than any of those.
Trees far below bent. This had to be the leading edge of a concussive explosion. Jackie steeled herself for what had to be a monstrous sound. But no smoke or fire rose.
The lurch persisted, becoming an unnatural bend of the entire forest. Tall evergreens shivered as their foreheads sought the dusty prayer rug of fallen needles. Those in the bunker had fallen silent. Mortars trickled to a halt.
When sound finally reached them, Jackie felt her flesh quiver. A tortured cacophony wailed beneath the steady hiss of needles. Trees groaned and split, their cracks like errant gunshots. A deep, grinding rumble underlay the din.
Jackie took pictures, unsure what she bore witness to. Through the telephoto, she could see the boughs of the trees sweeping the quivering earth but couldn't say which moved more. She struggled to stabilize her camera. Nothing helped. A shower of dust sprinkled her forehead. The entire valley shook.
Small arms fire had stopped on all sides. A jet streaked between the peaks, shattering the silence. Hurried commands called off its assigned bombing run. As the roar of its engines faded into the restless cry of the trees, frantic radio chatter erupted from the hand-held set.
"KOP under attack! Heavies! Gotta be! Need assistance!"
Jackie swung her camera toward the Korengal Outpost. A Chinook touched down behind the protective ridge. A trickle of dirt followed. She zoomed in tighter. Boulders, some the size of small cars, broke loose and plummeted toward the base. The thunderous crash of shifting earth became a steady roar like that of a raging river. Frame after frame, she continued to shoot.
The oversized Chinook leapt into the picture, blades whirring at an odd angle above the intervening slope. One brief hop and it sunk behind the horizon, too steep to recover. Warnings belted over the radio. Static drowned their cries as too many voices flooded the channels.
Perrino stumbled away, mindlessly scraping his helmet against the low ceiling. The handset clattered to the ground. Franklin looked at him, then Jackie, and she saw the fear and uncertainty these men had become experts at hiding.
"Keep firing!" he roared.
Jackie had never stopped shooting.
Miguel leaned into the MK19 unleashing a volley of grenades. The base responded, and Franklin opened up with the machine gun, the steady crack of each round and the rattle of the brass unable to cover his yell. With no target, the flattened forest became the focus.
Jackie swung her sights erratically along the upper ridge. Anywhere. She could be anywhere. An Augment was here but not on their side. Sweat threatened her grip, and she held her breath, more to ward away the scorching air then to stabilize her camera.
Bent trees whipped upward. The sky above the central base filled with shrapnel, branches, stones. Helicopters in holding patterns jerked against an unseen wind. The surrounding peaks seemed to jump, violently, and their tops sheared loose with a raging explosion so loud it drowned out the gunfire right beside her ear. She stumbled as the front wall of sandbags shifted. Light seared into the cramped space, and their protective barrier slumped, bags tumbling down past the outer line of razor wire. Jackie scrambled away.
Miguel nearly went with it. Hands gripping the sticks on the anchored MK, he refused to let loose. Franklin grabbed his shirt, and she tackled his knees. The three of them collapsed against the back wall as light flooded the fire position.
The roof slanted dangerously, and a dazzling curtain of dust showered the wrecked opening. All firing had ceased. The radio lay on the floor, quiet, and Perrino was nowhere to be found. Jackie realized she'd dropped her camera and without thinking, clawed her way toward the gaping hole on her hands and knees.
She found it where she left it. Her former armrest had sunk to floor level as the bags beneath it slid away. Bathed in full sunlight, she swept it up and pulled the viewfinder to her eye.
Korengal Outpost was gone. A cloud of dust hung over the blank landscape where it used to sit. She ignored the risks and swept her lens over the valley. Across from the base, a patch of virulent green caught her eye.
Bright and bold, this wasn't the green of the woods or a camouflage-clad insurgent. Her thoughts went to the clothing being scrubbed in the river outside Landigal. A woman in traditional dress stood proudly on the overlook. Even with the telephoto, she was too far away to see anything more. Jackie snapped a picture, and as the shutter re-opened, the lady was gone.
CHAPTER 7
YET ANOTHER PRIVATE jet flight from a cold and empty airfield, but I still can't sleep. I just stare out the window until we arrive at the Nanomech campus. Hard to recall, but the onsite runway is a new feature. Even in broad daylight, I can see the runway lights burning bright. Most of the nation might have lost power, but Xamse hasn't. More deals brokered by the fledgling corporate lord.
An electric car picks us up at the runway, and we make for the main campus. We pass a solar farm I hadn't noticed from the air. A security booth manned with two guards waves us through. They're wearing more than your typical rent-a-cop uniforms. Full military fatigues emblazoned with the Nanomech logo, they shoulder their rifles as the truck-stopping barrier descends.
"Paranoid much?" I ask.
The woman with the scarred face, answers. "I've made sure we're prepared for any contingency in these times."
My only other visit, I came in from the roof and rode the elevator straight to the basement. This time, we're dropped off at the lobby. Employees wander about in their khaki and collars chatting like the guy at the security desk doesn't have a fully automatic rifle. It's a spacious lobby with a vaulted ceiling and a chrome logo writ large on the wall.
"Welcome, Ayana," says a hidden computer as Scarface steps inside
and holds the door.
I marvel at the tech, skimming the door frame for cameras. Ayana impatiently clears her throat, and I step through.
"Welcome, Spencer."
I just learned our escort's name, so I'm taken aback that the building knows mine. "Thanks, building." I grin at Ayana. Past not seeming to be capable of a smile, she appears suddenly resentful.
"Welcome, visitor," the voice chimes when our so-called lawyer steps inside. "Security scan complete. Report to information desk."
A subdued smile crosses her lips when she's told this. She doesn't say a word, just primly seats herself on one of the leather couches in view of the security desk and removes her tablet from her bag.
"Follow me," says Ayana.
Her stride presents a powerful contrast against the sedentary herd of employees. I follow, aware of the curious stares we're generating as we approach the elevator.
I take one last look at the lawyer as the elevator arrives with a cheery "ding". She's engrossed in her tablet with her reading glasses perched on top of her head. Obviously, she's in the employ of Nanomech, Inc. She also knows about my situation. Why is she left to wait in the lobby?
Ayana's claw-like grip provides a helpful reminder the elevator doors are open.
"I can manage," I say.
First step inside and time for a little glitch in the Matrix. Been here, done this before. Funny, I'd been accompanied by a lackey on my first ride too. I double check the minion for any tasers then preempt her and stab the button for the lower level.
"Unauthorized Access," says the pleasant, feminine voice.
My escort brushes past, leaving a hand on me for good measure. She steps up to a retinal scanner mounted above the panel.
"Upgraded the security I see."
"Identity verified," says the elevator after she's pressed the button. We're soon descending.
"Used to be a card reader," I say. Nervous chatter, really. An agitation starts right beneath my skin where those electrical pulses yanked at my nerves a few years ago. She doesn't answer. "Biometrics are more convenient but not necessarily more secure. I could print a photo of your eye, drop a contact lens on the result, and likely get verification. Fingerprints? Those are like a password you leave lying around every-fucking-where."
I notice her reflection off the chrome button panel, eyes searing into me. "Xamse has requested to speak to you. I have not."
"Just trying to be helpful. You know, return the favor so I can pay off whatever indentured servitude I've been given. How long have you got?"
She props open her suit jacket and pushes up the sleeves. In the reflection, I see a gun holstered in her armpit plus a small canister on her belt. Probably pepper spray. Yep, not typical lawyerly tools of the trade. I'll be best served exercising my fifth amendment rights at this juncture.
When the door opens, she gets handsy again and pushes me ahead of her. I don't resist. At least, not until confronted by the stark white hall which terminates at a once-familiar set of double doors. My flashback is interrupted by an unexpected change.
The previous owner was all about intimidation. Those doors to his office had been black and covered in a maze-like pattern likely researched and designed to invoke existential dread. A black hole into which Drake would suck his prey and crush them. Now, those doors have been replaced with something downright stylish. Polished to a glassy smoothness, a toffee grain veins deep, rich wood. An almost inviting sight, a promise of sanctuary at the end of the featureless walk.
I stumble into a steady pace. One simple change has taken the edge off whatever trauma I'd started to relive. I've made a deal here. A shitty one, to be sure. But I'll be a lowly employee who can hopefully earn trust and gain access to the real prize. I'm ready to face Xamse, see what he's got planned. My pace quickens.
Once more, I'm herded in another direction and away from the wooden doors. A side hall. Another security door. Soon we're outside a row of what appear to be empty offices. We stop at the final door.
"These will be your quarters," says Ayana.
The room has the look of a converted office space. Cramped, with an acoustic tile ceiling and high traffic carpet, the place isn't very homey, but it isn't prison. One wall has a proper bed which includes a mattress thicker than a pancake. The other, a large screen which I first mistake for a window until I remember we're well below ground level. A high-def, presumably peaceful beach scene plays on a loop.
"Can I change that?" I ask my reluctant guide. She nods from the doorway.
Final touches include a bathroom with a porcelain toilet instead of the cold stainless which my ass cheeks had grown accustomed to for the second time in my life. The real selling point is the private shower. Glassed with fancy bricks, nobody should be sneaking a peek at my junk as I lather. Shouldn't. The search for cameras will need to happen once I've gotten some privacy.
"I'll take it," I say.
"We'll have your meals brought to you until you've been fully entered into the system," she says, routine and cold. I hope she's not expecting a tip. "Then you can eat in the cafeteria."
"Let me guess, no off-campus lunch?"
This earns a smile but not of joy. She's not entertained by my amazing wit. No, this is pleasure taken at my expense. Or more of a deeply ingrained hatred, which I can't quite explain.
"You wouldn't want to leave. Most of our employees prefer to stay here. The premises are secure, they have uninterrupted power and regularly scheduled deliveries. The rest of your country..." She lets the thought hang before continuing. "Inputs for the integrated display are in the nightstand. You will be monitored at all times. You will have access to the FreedomNet, nothing else. If you prove yourself to be more than a nuisance, you may be granted limited access to the Nanomech servers. Xamse will see you tomorrow morning at five."
She's gone without giving me a chance to ask more questions. A bolt slides shut letting me know my dreams of privacy and freedom were a bit premature. Fine, here I've got a few more options other than to slip deeper into madness: shower, sleep, or check out the new tech. Obviously, I go for the tech first.
I place Dad's mask and my multitool on the nightstand. A keyboard illuminates on the surface, and the outline of a mousepad appears roughly where I've set my multitool.
The whole table glides easily around the room with an adjustable height for sitting or standing. A few metal tubes for the frame and the glass shelf, the integrated electronics are practically invisible. Slick. I move the mask and multitool to the bed. I fiddle with one of the screwdrivers, a sudden urge to disassemble the nightstand barely suppressed.
Before long, I'm lost as I dive into the National Narrow Network known as FreedomNet. First thing I do is something I've rarely done before. I surf the news. Each new report confirms the state of the outside world is as dire as I've heard. When the power dropped, planes fell out of the sky, intersections turned into death matches, and too many critical places like hospitals discovered just how useless their emergency generators were. Nobody aside from a handful of people in the backwoods of places like Utah and Montana had been fully prepared.
The most recent reports even include a breaking story about an unnamed Nanomech employee and his testimony in court. No details are given. With the tech blackout, I managed to escape the joke of a trial without video or photos. But there's an underlying tone of a citizen who did the right thing by turning in the terrorists.
Great. I'm finally an example for my peers.
Throughout every report, the tone and the wording of the articles remains upbeat. They drip with a can-do patriotism which only Hound might understand. We've all had to re-evaluate our bearings, though. Could be he's developed a healthy cynicism, what with his "active duty or prison" offer.
That's his problem. I've got plenty of my own. Without explicitly typing names for this centralized, far-from-free network to collect and report, I begin searching for articles about Detroit. The fire. Augments reported on scene. My recent courtroom lie
s. I dig deeper into the early days right after I got jailed.
"Have you seen this woman?" My browsing comes to a full stop. Mom, or Charlotte's, picture springs up.
Below the mugshot reads a red banner: Escaped Convict, Connie Harrington. The attached article mentions a prison guard approaching retirement who allegedly helped her escape. He took her to a bus stop, and she was gone before anyone noticed. The date is weeks ago.
I collapse on the bed and try to put all the pieces together. She'd left me there without so much as a goodbye. This from somebody who can crawl into your brain space and say hello. I'd worried maybe her powers failed her after the stress of Detroit, but there's no way she just talked some nice old guard into giving up his pension for a jailbreak. She hijacked his mind.
It's good she's not using her powers to contact me, I tell myself. They were never hers anyway; they were Charlotte's. The look of shock and horror on her face when she realized she'd walked Destructo into a meat grinder can't be erased. She got past that for Dad and tried to use those same powers on the mission.
Mission. Right, stay on mission.
Vulkan. No mention of his whereabouts in the feeds. Both he and Ember have their own wanted posters. In fact, there's an entire website devoted to Missing Government Assets, part of Homeland Security. Rogue Augments appear with rewards offered for information. They don't pay in dollars or even Salarium. They pay in extra kilowatt hours.
Eric and Chroma haven't made the list. Informational pages about the Collective receive prominent placement on every page. The FreedomNet browser even has a built-in reporting mechanism for suspicious sites, reminding citizens this is their civic duty, a failure of which is punishable by restricted access and a downgrade on their national electric allotment. Any use of the symbols is criminal. Conducting transactions in Salarium is treason. But nobody has caught on to Eric and his digital girlfriend.
I keep surfing, searching for those gaps in the network those two would be happy to slither through. Places Eric could reach in and install a rootkit or where Chroma could spin her own little webs. After several hours of plumbing the depths, I feel I've hit bottom.
