by Russ Linton
Mentally, physically, he'd never worked so damn hard in his life. And not only him. Out there, in the ether, thousands upon thousands of members rushed about enacting protocols drafted in his first handbook for the Collective.
Rule number one was always dicey. Sometimes people followed it, sometimes they didn't. He clicked open the document and flipped past the symbol.
Rule 1. Don't be a dick.
Seemed simple enough. Only, he'd found out the hard way that occasionally you needed to be a dick to get shit done. When you were talking about the fate of the civilized world, calm and patient didn't always work.
He'd long since given up the illusion that this was exactly like a game of Civ. Even in that game, Gandhi needed to fucking die. Every time. The AI behind him was a raging asshole. But asshole Gandhi got shit done, faster, and more efficiently than most human players.
Being a dick was a requirement of leadership, he'd decided, and not one required of his followers. He would shield them from that. Also, it was a matter of perspective.
Every satellite Eric could get his hands on, he'd jacked, mostly from the U.S. which had fallen into an analog world. The map filling out the monitors wasn't a static image but a living, breathing window onto the entire planet. He could zoom in tight enough over any area to watch traffic crawl or tap into video feeds which slowly came back online as world-wide infrastructure was repaired and re-routed onto his network.
Or really, the Collective's network and thus, everybody's. OneNet. No owner. No central authority.
After disseminating the handbook, his first task for the masses had been to restore communications. Spread the network across the globe any way they could. Before the Techpocalypse, hacktivists had already learned how to create underground networks resistant to government controls and sweeping shutdowns. That's precisely what Eric wanted deployed, everywhere. Like the Salarium currency itself, a global revolution formed on a decentralized backbone.
This worked great for areas with tech-savvy populations. Eric had his own plans to spread even further. Drones and cellphones had started to ship from his partners in China. Already he had test sites in some remote fucking places where he delivered digital connections like mana from heaven.
This wasn't about money. Nor power. Fuckall to power. And the work, God, the work. He thought Crimson had been a slave driver. As autonomous as he tried to keep the Collective, there was always some whiny bitch, or a problem they wanted solved for them. Every now and then, a member would reach out and demand he step in.
Like that kid who lost all his Salarium to a U.S. seizure of assets prior to the global meltdown. Like really? Eric could care less if the dude would be a millionaire right now. Why he'd left all his shit on an American exchange made no damn sense.
His response to requests that he personally intervene was always rule number two:
Rule 2. You are the fucking leader.
And just like that, shit would get done. Was it how he would do it? Hardly ever. And that was fine. As long as they supported the Prime Directive:
Build a better world for everyone.
Nobody had been interested in doing this before. They'd been too comfortable. Too willing to wait for someone else to take action or to glide through life keeping the world at arm's length behind the screen of a smartphone.
Of course, he'd also learned everybody had a different vision of what a better world might be.
Eric tightened his on-screen view over the U.S. Unlike some, they'd had plenty of warning. Their slide from the top of the shit heap began long before the lights went out. Vilifying science and emerging technologies as part of their political warfare hadn't been the smartest move. Other countries had quietly begun to surpass them. Now, post-disaster, they pointed fingers and walled themselves off. Building a better world to the U.S. of A. meant keeping themselves at the pinnacle of yesterday's way of thinking.
Idiots.
He zeroed in on Detroit. Must be hard to lose all that power. To feel vulnerable.
The screen dimmed and went black. Overhead lights in his cavernous office flickered. He grimaced and thumbed a button on his mouse.
"Mrs. H?"
Yes, Eric?
Any kind of physical call out was unnecessary, but they needed a signal, so she knew when to drop in on his brain. Between her and Charlotte, there was never a minute of...
...peace. I know, I do my best to give you your space, but you won't have any for a long time. Her voice made his insides feel like the vast pit outside where miners had long given up looking for their shiny stones. What do you need?
"Geothermal power is acting up," he said aloud. Brain talking wasn't a thing he'd ever try.
Sorry, I got distracted. Within seconds, the screen restored itself. It's Spencer.
"Everything okay?" Absently, Eric slid the recovered viewscreen over to the sprawling, self-contained Nanomech campus.
He's stressed. I thought he was in the Armor again.
The fucking armor. He couldn't judge how the dude chose to cope. Eric knew it was tough losing his best friend. He knew it had to be worse losing a father.
For whatever reason, Mrs. H hadn't yet been able to establish contact with Spence. Distance didn't seem to be a factor. Out of guilt, Eric had volunteered to be her practice dummy, something he'd grown to regret. Hours and hours of psychic beat downs had laid bare his own mental barriers. He shivered. From personal experience, he knew when Mrs. H's target slept, unguarded, that's when her powers best crept all stealthy and ninja-like into people's brains.
Spencer had apparently gone full-on elf or some shit and never slept. Lately, she'd been reaching out more often, convinced by the lack of open sleep routes that something was wrong. This distracted her from more pressing duties.
"Do I need to pull some strings? Task some of our U.S. swarm to help him out?"
I don't think involving Spencer in a revolution would lower his stress level. Xamse's already done plenty to help. The disdain was evident in her disembodied voice.
"You know, Mrs. H, I could ransomware that dude's entire operation if you want. Put him out of business. I'd do anything for Spence. He's got to know."
Would Spencer want him to step in? Or is that what he himself wanted? Was he seeking permission to end this friendship exile? Permission to be forgiven?
This isn't the time. You have work to do. I'm here to help you and make sure it gets done.
"Work."
He didn't know how, but she'd gone. Like when someone walks out of a room and, without looking, you know you're alone. She was off to check up on their power supply, maybe the one reason he himself hadn't ended up as her psychic vegetable.
Eric changed views once more to display the bowels of his lair. It really was a dungeon up in there, complete with abandoned mine tunnels, veins of precious ore, monster rats the size of Chihuahuas and a torture chamber. He shuddered at the sight. Tomb of Motherfucking Horrors.
On screen, a bulkhead door lumbered open into the underground chamber. Mrs. H walked out along the metal scaffolding suspended a short distance above a steaming, rocky floor. The walls dripped with condensation, veined with pipes and hoses feeding up and into the steam turbines located in the operations center far above where Eric sat. Chained, held over a metal pressure plate, and connected to a half-dozen sensors designed to alert at the slightest activity, was Vulkan.
Mrs. H stood before the drooling giant. Arms each bigger around than her waist, thighs bigger than her chest, not an ounce of fear for her safety filled Eric's thoughts. He did his best to conceal the true source of his drying mouth and sweating palms.
Between the low resolution and the permanently smeared camera, he couldn't make out Vulkan's face, but he imagined an involuntary curl of his rocky lip as he seized and spasmed. Eric's joints locked in sympathy.
Biting his own lip, Eric watched Connie tilt her head, straining the muscles in her neck at the base of her skull. Vulkan's body jerked, and chains strained as he arched ou
tward, screaming a terrible scream which echoed over the speakers and reverberated through the pipes piercing the base.
Eric shut off the monitor hoping the screams faded with the picture.
Solar power would have been shit out here. Running tanker trucks of diesel fuel would have left a constant trail. And wind? Oh, they had plenty, but shoving a farm into the sky, no way that'd go undetected. They needed a different solution. Contained. Hidden underneath the abandoned buildings and equipment of the mine.
He'd done his best. All his time spent tending to a comatose Charlotte back at the old base hadn't been for nothing. He'd been able to make their new prisoner comfortable. At least the fucker had his basic needs taken care of. Feeding tube. Catheter. A bag for his shit. Most mercifully, Vulkan, the one who murdered Crimson Mask, was alive.
Hell, thought Eric, half the time he wanted a bag for his own shit. Every minute spent away from the command center was another minute operations in Eastern Europe could be driven off course by the annoying Russians. Another minute a broadcast drone used to help get the outback of Africa online would be shot down and scrapped by some random tribal asshat. Even the comparably stable regions of Scandinavia and northern Europe retained elements driving for the same backward, protectionist bullshit which consumed America.
Then there were the damn Chinese. Word was they'd been cracking down hard on Salarium. His operatives were afraid. They'd even brought on some Augment talent to purge themselves of the Collective.
Yeah, he had more important things to worry about than Vulkan. Specifics weren't his concern. Get it done, he'd told them. You're the leader. His eyes went to the blacked-out monitor. He'd told Chroma and Mrs. H the same.
He was lucky Mrs. H forgave him at all. She got it, though. She knew this revolution couldn't fail. The Crimson Mask couldn't have died for nothing. To get to their final goal, a world united, unburdened by corporate leeches and Byzantine governments, they'd need to make some sacrifices.
This was all necessary. No way around it. Sometimes, you had to say fuck rule number one.
CHAPTER 17
HUNCHED OVER THE DIM glow of her digital camera, Jackie reminded herself she was on assignment. Assignments ended. This one would, too. She just couldn't say how permanent that end would be.
The battery charge wouldn't last, and she couldn't waste a minute of time while assessing the daily shots. Jacket tented over her head, no light could escape either. Set free inside her makeshift quarters, the glow would pierce the shredded tarp and the bullet-ridden walls. She'd become a target, a beacon from the surrounding heights.
She double checked the time stamp on the next photo. Three months since she'd first arrived. Rogue humidity had been replaced with a cool, invigorating fall breeze. The near-perfect weather deepened their sense of stasis. The valley had chosen to lull them into surrender. Once asleep beneath the peaceful skies, it would swallow them whole.
Or that is, she, would.
Jackie thumbed back through a week’s worth of shots to find the bright green figure on the cliff. Women never entered battle in the valley unless used as human shields. Outside this remote stronghold, she'd heard of women recruited to become suicide bombers—expendable human munitions.
Already chasing a female Augment of her own, Jackie found herself fascinated by women who'd said fuck-all to tradition. She wanted to know more about the Lady of the Valley even though she'd likely be killed by her. Had she been chosen by her village to undergo this procedure? Had she simply gone on her own in defiance of tradition?
She navigated her way to a folder on the card which held her most prized photos. She never threw any away, ever. Flash drives and external hard drives brimming with stolen moments and stories littered her apartment back home.
The next one she opened was of a girl, her camouflage shirt loose at the collar where the strap of a purple sports bra showed. Hair pulled back in frozen waves, the rich brown had a hint of auburn highlights. Her eye makeup had been done so perfectly, Jackie had to admit a grudging respect. It made her eyes glow, olives trapped in amber.
Jackie had been in Syria when she met Berdi. Female Peshmerga fighters were the hot story. Ladies all glammed up sporting rifles and military fatigues, Jackie assumed she was walking into a PR stunt. She'd refused to interview them in the press tent nestled inside the green zone behind barricades and tanks. She wanted to see this farce in action.
The bombed-out village Jackie had paid for passage to was on the eve of a major offensive. While Kurdish fighters loaded trucks and cleaned weapons, she found Berdi in her tent. Posters of martyrdom covered the walls in photoshopped shrines to their dead fighters, faces floating above flags and mountains branded with patriotic sayings. The lit vanity mirror where Berdi sat seemed surreal.
Jackie snapped pictures without bothering to ask for permission. Dimness and the trapped heat made the air into a medium she could almost paint with. Berdi never stopped. Each movement had gnawed at Jackie's desire to expose the underlying vanity.
When Jackie couldn't take it anymore, she'd asked, "Does all the makeup help you fight?"
Olive eyes regarded her. "It helps me die."
They talked. A sniper, Berdi gave no mercy to her radical foes. If captured, she knew death would be the best possible fate. Raped, hanged, stoned, her fate would become synonymous with so many women throughout these ideological backwaters. For however long she managed to cling to her rifle, she could fight.
"And when I die, I'll be ready." She gestured to the ghostly faces on the posters surrounding them. "For my memorial."
"You aren't afraid?" Jackie asked.
Syria had been one of Jackie's early assignments. The question about fear was one a rookie reporter always asked. But even today she might still have asked that same one. Jackie looked around at her battered bunk and listened to the crushing silence. No, she'd have asked the question especially today.
Turned out, the radicals Berdi fought feared the female Peshmerga more. To die at the hands of a woman meant paying the ultimate price: a direct trip to hell, a spiritual humiliation.
The Lady of the Valley had decided their occupiers deserved the same fate. She had systematically destroyed every forward operating base and every safe route through the Korengal. They'd sent out patrols, but when men stopped coming back, they had no choice but to hunker down. She flipped forward to her more recent pictures.
She'd watched the faces of the soldiers change since their last radio contact with the outside world. The first picture showed the youngest, Donovan, slumped over the 50 cal gazing across the ridgeline. His boyish cheeks had developed a permanent shadow, his eyes a perpetual squint as he scanned the far horizon. The next one was of Franklin, seated in the mess, despondently regarding an MRE. His smile had dimmed to a narrow curve of his lip. Then came a shot of Miguel, the trash talker with shifty eyes, cradling his rifle. He hadn't spoken in days. Those fleeting glances had gone from playful to ominous.
Her next shot was of Captain Perrino poring over a ream of maps. Aloof and laser-focused on his duties, he'd become even more of a hermit in his mortared bunker. Every last man was beginning to feel his lack of direction, but they had nowhere to go. The bases dotting the valley heights had vanished. Enemy positions had hemmed them in while the valley itself reclaimed the past. Holly, cedar, and the loose, rocky earth had risen up in rebellion, covering any sign of the invader's passing.
The battery light flashed on her camera. Checking the time on her watch, she leaned over the edge of her bed. Pulling the spare battery from her solar charger, she retreated beneath her jacket. Her satellite phone, camera gear, everything else was ready. She was always ready. But was she, really, for what would come?
She didn't have any eyeliner.
Fuck that. She had too much to do. Getting her pictures to her editor was one. Beyond a colossal defeat, this was history in the making. She could only assume the Lady had been fielded by the Taliban, maybe with help from the Russian or Chinese Augme
nt programs. Not long ago, the U.S. had done the same to end Soviet interference in the area.
Was this truly history? Or just a cosmic wheel of bullshit with her ride quickly coming to an end?
"Fuck." She thought about leaving her jacket shelter to get a cigarette.
Work, the calling, the mission, none of that could distract her. Normally the fear waited until she got home to consume her. In the absence of a constant jolt of adrenaline, in the terrifying silence of peace, the fear assaulted her. Going home became more a curse than a blessing. Obsessed with the thought of returning there kept you sane. This is how she, the soldiers, survived war.
But since losing all contact with the outside, that precarious balance had been destroyed. Fear hunted them from the rocky crags and shadowy tree cover of the surrounding valley. Uncertainty invaded their one place of refuge.
The Lady of the Valley, sitting in her bombed-out home, the blood of her family staining the floor, knew this. Her enemies would suffer humiliation of body and spirit.
Worse than the Djinn when she was younger, this new Augment signaled a clear shift in global realities. Events were transpiring to reshape the world, Jackie could feel it. Her own quest to find Ember felt insignificant. A confrontation which, like the occupying forces in the valley, would be swallowed up.
She toyed with the chain around her neck. The canister knocked against her breast, and she cradled it close. Absently, she produced a cigarette and pressed it to her lips. Her jacket still in place, she retrieved her lighter and stared at the flame. Faint heat kissed her cheeks and warmed the moisture of her eyes. The initial tang of the butane burned away and left her steeped in the ghostly smell of heat which excited the fabric of her jacket, her hair. Unseen danger. On the verge of conflagration.
Those female Peshmerga knew better than to have children. Such things were selfish in wartime, Berdi had said. Comfort with another woman never came with those strings attached.
