by Russ Linton
I exit the lab and return to my quarters to take a perfunctory seat on the bed. Too much remains unfinished. The software end for my Chroma blocker is as good as I can get it. I'll need some specialized hardware to match. That'll be easy by comparison. Hardware, that's my thing. Software is Enigma's domain.
With Eric's help, I could've done this in a matter of hours. If he's not completely mental, he's got his own version ready for when Chroma inevitably betrays him. I recall the last day I saw him at the run-down motel. The last day I saw Dad. Mom. My current firewall obsession threatens to change targets.
Instead, I think of how he asked me to keep his chats with Chroma private. How my agreeing to that fucked everybody. Every system she infects, every port she floods, every pattern Chroma weaves has become the latticework to prop up my current reality.
I use the threat of her to justify working for a questionable boss, biding my time until I can figure out where Vulkan magically disappeared to. And a few words with Cyrus while sporting the battle armor wouldn't be at all bad.
Find them. Fix my mistakes.
I settle on top of the sheets and close my eyes. Last portion of the firewall code involved...what? That's right, deep packet inspection. The only way to disentangle her from normal traffic. The government solution of cutting off all physical connections works, but already we know The Collective is attempting to jack into FreedomNet on the daily. Deep packet, that's the answer. Intrusive. The United States’ battered infrastructure will maybe take a bandwidth hit.
Within the code swarming my brain, a message pops up.
You're building the Great Firewall, jackass.
"Fuck you," I say to Eric.
I open my eyes to clear the screen, but the code stays on the ceiling. Suddenly, he's at my bedside, wafting a used Hot Pocket sleeve in my face. I didn't mean to hurt Crimson. As though his pet name for Dad places enough separation between the Augment and my father. I... I'd never do that.
"But you did!" I bolt upright, screaming, eardrums ringing in the tiny space. "You motherfucking did!"
Eric's gone. The code disappears too. I don't remember switching on the screen saver, but the beach scene is playing, making a convincing imitation of an oceanside window. Sand, rolling waves, I stare hard and try to place myself there. I stand. Inch closer. My nose almost touches the screen.
"I'm here, Mom. Where are you?"
When she doesn't answer, I back away and face the bed. The bottle of pills peeks out from underneath the comforter where the edge trails the floor.
I take one.
Every night after, I take one. Eyes close, I wake, I code, I build. Close. Wake. Code. Build. The hardware is a breeze. A stale breeze, caught between a dead, dreamless sleep which passes without even the faintest hint of ocean air. By the end of the week, my cage for a digital threat which might even the next step in human evolution is complete.
WORK DONE, I FIND MYSELF suddenly curious about the rest of the Nanomech campus. My diversions include a snack machine, the cafeteria, and a room filled with skill games like ping-pong and air hockey plus a few aging video games. Xamse seems to have reached back into the nineties or early two thousands for his Silicone Valley tech giant makeover. No way any of this was here when Drake ran the show.
Employees continue their odd stares. When I was younger, Mom took me to see an albino crocodile at a downtown Dallas aquarium. A showpiece because it was a freak of nature. I don't know what they've heard about me aside from vague news reports, and I don't ask. Nobody volunteers. I'm destroying the high score on Centipede when the building calls out in her soothing voice.
"Spencer Alexander, you are wanted in conference room five."
A few angry bug segments blasted, and I gather my armful of vending machine loot. All this work for no pay, I feel more than okay with hacking the machine's override codes to load up on garbage. Gourmet chef food feels kinda dirty mid-apocalypse.
"Hmph," I grumble. While defending a magical forest from insect invaders, the whole place seems to have cleared out. Quitting time?
I follow the LED panels as they light my individualized path to the conference room. I wonder how they handle a conflict while guiding multiple people? I'd love to see the experiment take place, but the hallways are as empty as the break room.
Conference room five on the third floor is likely the same as conference room four, three, two, seventy-eight, and any conference room ever. A big wooden table, glass wall to the hallway, and high-backed, leather chairs don't set it apart. The switchable privacy glass which becomes an opaque mist as Xamse touches a control pad at the head of the table does.
"Sweet," I say, dumping my loot on the table.
Our so-called lawyer has returned. Ayana's here too. She eyes me with pure contempt as I dig through the pile which includes several bags of chips and a few pastries.
"Can you give us any assurances this firewall of yours will work?" The lawyer appraises the firewall hardware on the table. Based off an existing next-gen appliance, the case is a thin blade nearly a foot and a half in either direction. I'm a little surprised they removed it from the lab.
"Nope," I say. Her raised eyebrow receives a reply. "Testing the unit wasn't an option. This is designed to stop one specific threat, who's sentient, and once deployed, she'll know exactly what it is designed to do."
Ayana's disgust deepens. Her boss maintains his overly friendly demeanor with that Cheshire smile. The lawyer, on the other hand, is quick to respond.
"And given any warning, she'd likely flood our current defenses and take root on our systems before we could activate this?"
Our systems. This lady isn't a lawyer, and so we aren't just having a meeting about intellectual property or some nonsense.
"You're with who, exactly?" I ask. "CIA? Homeland Security? DOD?"
She doesn't smile or flinch. "Elizabeth Cantor. CIA. But our partners in Homeland will be overseeing the implementation."
I tear open a Twinkie and take a bite, getting mostly spongy cake. Another bite is required to hit the filling, and I wag the half-eaten pastry at her. "Not gonna work."
To her credit, she doesn't object to either my brash command or the mouthful of goodness. Xamse speaks first, "My Chief Information Officer speaks correctly." The title causes me to check Xamse for any sign of derision, then wiggle my eyebrows at Ayana at the promotion. Her seething hatred takes it all in, from my mouthful of Twinkie to my sticky fingers, probably storing the image later for target practice. "We will implement all necessary changes. Our nanomechs already exist on your systems. We can coordinate the effort with much greater ease from here."
"They'll want an observer," Cantor says. She's not fighting this at all. Forget holding mighty Augments by the balls, Xamse's got Lady Liberty by the... "Can I assume Spencer here will be our lead?"
Don't choke on Twinkie. Don't choke on Twinkie.
"My colleague has other projects. Those are the ones we wish to discuss with you today. The revival of project MANTIS. We are, as they say, a go?"
She provides an icy smile. "Defense still has some issues, but I do believe we're cleared."
Xamse leans forward, and a very practiced look of concern knots his forehead. "I do hope your colleagues aren't too worried."
"Bluntly," she says, swiping at her tablet and meeting Xamse's posturing head on. "They prefer a different capture to kill ratio than I do."
His concern erased, Xamse settles into his chair and spreads his hands. "However the decision is made, we will accommodate. The MANTIS platform is quite flexible."
Without prompting or direction, Cantor stands. She tucks her tablet under her arm. "Good. We have your first target. I'll send the necessary briefing. Perhaps your pilot could see me out?" The question is a calculated one, and her eyes dart between Ayana and myself.
"Busy, busy." Xamse waves a long finger and quirks his chin toward his security officer. "See our client to the lobby. Make sure she doesn't run into any trouble."
Ayan
a nods, happy to stand and put some distance between us. A gesture sees Cantor out the door but not before she takes one last, piercing look at me. As always, I've managed to make myself popular.
"Sounds like the men in black are at each other’s throats," I say when the door has solidly closed.
"Perceptive, my friend." Xamse stands and presses a button to clear the impenetrable tint from the windows. He watches the parking lot as if he's waiting for them to appear. "A snake with many heads will never know the right direction to slither."
I wait for him to add ”As they say,” because this sounds like one of the aphorisms he seems to be adding to his vocabulary in an attempt to sound more casual. Of course, I've never heard anything quite like that. He skips the citation and walks away from the window, gesturing for me to follow.
"You must be very careful. These people cannot be trusted. Trust is of the utmost importance, Spencer." He drives this home with a glare. "But for now, we help them to complete their goals, and we pursue ours."
"Sure thing," I say and scramble to my feet. "Kind of like I'm helping you. For now."
He turns at the doorway, all smiles. "Precisely. Though I do hope you will continue to be of use."
"As they say." I stuff the Twinkie in my mouth and scoop up the rest. I get the stink eye for leaving my wrapper on the table. "For Ayana. She loves to pick up after me."
Unimpressed, he strides down the hall. "She may kill you one day," he says, quite plainly.
"I get the same feeling." This, he laughs at.
I follow him. We ride the elevator to level two and take a sloping concourse toward a set of unmarked double doors.
"What's Ayana's deal anyway?" She and the rest of her security team don't quite fit the techno-cult vibe at the campus. They seem more like old school Beetle minions. Well-armed, disciplined, not at all the sleepy middle-aged guys who you'd think would be guarding this hive of nerds and geekery.
Xamse shrugs. "She finds you petulant." He appears extremely pleased with the word of the day he's uncovered.
"Sure, I'll own that." We reach the doors, and he swings one open. A dark hallway lit by floor level rope lights awaits. "But what's got her so wound up? She takes her job a little too seriously."
"She is from the place I am. We both had to survive terrible times. Her—" he pauses until I step cautiously past. "Her ordeals were not dissimilar. Perhaps worse."
This narrow corridor is blacked out, and I'm reminded of Drake's old decorating habits. My senses perk up as the door shuts. Spoiled eyesight, I rely on Xamse's confidence to navigate the passage. Through the walls, I can hear a chattering chorus of people. Lots of people. We fumble through the dark to a curtain. The entry ramp to a death match in a coliseum perhaps? I stop him.
"Level with me. Am I in some sort of competition here? Because I don't want a full-time gig. I'll help you, you help me, that's all I need. She can be your wassup."
The darkness does nothing to mute the intensity of his stare. "Interesting. I came to you with an offer of help. Prison is no place for a man of your talents. And then there is the matter of your revenge," he says the word with an unquestionable intimacy, "You seek this in your heart. I know for I have done so as well. Would you truly have Ayana fly the battle armor? Watch her exact the very vengeance you crave?"
I focus on the curtain, avoiding him and trying to see through it. "No."
"Good. Good!" He claps me on the shoulder, jubilant. "Come."
He sweeps the curtain aside and enters a stage, his head held high. Applause erupts from the auditorium. Floor to ceiling, seats are crammed with people all dressed in their khakis and collars. Smiling, Xamse beckons me forward. I trudge into the spotlight, barefoot, snacks clutched to my chest. Stage lights blot out the crowd, but the cheers intensify.
A stagehand in black wanders away from Xamse who adjusts a fresh microphone on the lapel of his suit. "Fellow workers of Nanomech! Our new Chief Information Security Officer, straight from the ruins of Detroit, Spencer Alexander!"
I manage a feeble wave which sends one of my bags of chips tumbling to the stage.
No deathmatch, it's worse. Public speaking.
CHAPTER 10
THE FOREMAN'S OFFICE where Eric sat bristled with wires and monitors. Spence would've had a hernia at the pimped-out rat's nest vibe. No labels, no cable management, just organized chaos. Kind of like the Collective he struggled to control.
"You have an incoming call."
"Christ," Eric said, slumping in his pre-ergonomics vinyl chair. He didn't need to ask who. Nobody, absolutely nobody, could ”call” him. "How did he get through this time?"
Chroma giggled. Likely she could detect the irritation in his voice. She was trying on a new voice of her own. It sounded cute—the high-pitched fawning of an anime princess—and it wasn't helping Eric focus.
"He tickled my ports, and I said no. But he's very persistent. Makes a girl want to grab his connection and twist."
Eric considered setting her loose on him.
Xamse had been harassing him ever since he'd tried to contact Spence. Dumb. Really dumb. He'd done his best to cover his tracks, but the phone had been a Nanomech special meant to lure him out of hiding. No way it should've worked. But it did.
As far as he could tell, the mini-tyrant wanted some kind of unholy alliance. Eric had been watching him stake out a little fiefdom in a remote part of Sub-Saharan Africa. It was a losing battle, what with the air there being like a pair of sweaty testicles and the ludicrous number of hops required to reach any sort of substantial network infrastructure.
Eric had plans to solve such annoying problems. He'd have the entire world wired sooner rather than later. Any attempt by Xamse to pull off this miracle of miracles would necessarily require the Collective's resources. And Eric, well, he was the Collective.
Not in a literal sense.
While he and Chroma set up shop in their new crib, several Collective Nodes had been able to expand their influence in Southeast Asia, Russia, and Eastern Europe. China posed problems but being swarmed from within made it only a matter of time before the flood burst through the Great Firewall in a giant digital money shot. But the people's party was determined to go down fighting.
Western Europe had been desperately trying to fall back on its own financial institutions, claiming a new era of freedom and innovation outside the looming specter of American money and business. Except those Nordic countries. They'd been the furthest along with accepting Salarium and had taken the Collective plunge as readily as a polar bear dives into the frigid sea. Mad respect for those crazy Vikings.
America, the land of the free, hadn't taken to the new world order. Kill modern conveniences, and people went extreme with their freedom. Looting, riots, societal upheaval—to keep the heavily armed populace from killing themselves, the government called for martial law.
Xamse must be sticking around to milk the last off Lady Liberty's teats before moving on to his jungle paradise. Such was his life's dream. For Eric, though, this was his.
Well, not the part about sitting in the equivalent of a meat locker, his every breath forming tiny clouds. Nor his sorta-badass fingerless gloves, mostly so he could both type and maintain a little warmth. No, his life's dream had been to own a secret base. A lair all his own.
Chroma had led him here after their harrowing escape from Detroit. Jericho, a failed diamond mine on the frontier of Canada, had been abandoned for two years. Built around a geothermal energy source which one bad earthquake had sealed up tight, the mine was a small-scale recreation of what had happened south of the border. No power, no civilization. With the current state of the world, nobody needed the bling anyway.
Getting deliveries started had been the toughest part. But he was surprised how quickly The Collective was mobilizing to his aid. Or well, the aid of their former leader.
Using Shortwave's accounts, Eric had put out a request for assistance and the faceless army had responded by borrowing, stealing, or using
their own personal resources. With society in complete disarray, their movements had gone undetected. His little group thrived in the mad scramble to hold together civilization. Eric realized he did too. These, these were his peeps. Whether he was Shortwave or not, he knew he'd found his calling.
The Internet was the shit in that way. Nobody ever truly knew who you were or weren't. If they ever figured it out? Change your address or your handle. Start over. That easy.
He'd been obsessed with Augments for so long, he'd forgotten himself. At one time, all he'd wanted was to be an Augment. Then, all he wanted was to bask in their glory, helping where he could to try and make the world better. When that better world came knocking, and only he could fully see the vision, more than even Shortwave and his thugs, he knew he'd have to step up.
And if he hadn't, Chroma might not be so giddy.
He struggled out of the chair and walked to the window overlooking the factory floor. Stillness of the conveyor belts and the massive tumblers used to separate shiny rocks from the worthless ones suited the place. Iced over. Trapped in an empty past which once had time and energy to waste on this bullshit. The material world was worthless, long live the digital.
"Well? Can I? Twist just a little?" whined Chroma.
She'd been so quiet he'd almost forgotten she was there. Long pauses weren't uncommon as she always had hundreds, thousands of other conversations going on in her realm. She never lost her place in any of them.
Crushing Xamse would be a step in the right direction. He could unleash Chroma on America's fledgling FreedomNet and tear the thing to shreds. Spencer's firewall trick wouldn't hold her long. Or could it? But no, they weren't ready for that. One country at a time, Eric told himself.
And he wasn't ready to face Spencer.
He almost couldn't believe what Spence had done. He wouldn't have believed if it hadn't come straight from Mrs. H's mouth...or her ganglia or whatever the fuck. She couldn't get into her son's dreams, so she had plenty to say to Eric.
