Ghost of the Gods - 02 (32 page)

“That’s not what I asked,” snarled Mark. “What use are you to us? Why shouldn’t we dump your body by the side of the road?”

“Your only chance is to drive to the nearest commune and surrender before it is too late. Do you feel that loneliness that seems to have no cause, just a little pain in your heart and your head? That is withdrawal from the guide. It will spread and grow worse until it drives you mad. Why didn’t your betrayer friend tell you about that? He is using you. He is probably following us right now, waiting for you to lead him to his next target.”

Mark now understood why Noah had struck this thing posing as a man. He wanted to do the same, but with a closed fist. He thought about discharging his .45 into Mustafa’s forehead.

“Go on, hit me,” said Mustafa. “It’s what you want. It’s what primitives like you do best.”

Mark pulled the pillowcase carefully over Mustafa’s head, then climbed back into the front seat. He took off his .45 and holster, placing it under the seat. He knew he would put it back on later, but for now he felt better if he couldn’t turn around and shoot someone dead.

Evolution

Alexi Zuris – Dallas, Texas – February 28, 0002 A.P.

Alexi walked into the Prometheus bunker as if he personally owned it. Military personnel snapped to attention. He looked around with pride at the people in uniforms moving with efficiency and purpose. He considered the incalculable wealth this one enterprise represented and thought, “We own this and so much more.” His father was wrong about the allies they needed in their war of dominance. His father was stubborn, would not listen to reason, and could bring Prometheus and the entire Family down. Alexi could not let this happen and so had entered into a clandestine arrangement with a powerful, silent ally.

It was a long walk past security and surveillance cameras to the lab where the seven Prometheus subjects were housed. Alexi was carrying a black Halliburton briefcase, the same one he’d used for the same purpose not so long ago. Inside were modified clones of the relic-nanotech circuit boards currently running. He had one replacement board for every Prometheus interface chamber. The boards contained about 50 percent relic-nanotech and 50 percent modern computer logic. Just as with the jammers, no one really understood exactly how this relic-nanotech worked or why. The engineers called them
nanotech black boxes
. The circuit boards now running had been reengineered based on Kathy Morrison’s discovery, and the lab results were startling. They had made strides that some scientists were describing as years of advancement in a single day. Events were moving fast. It was critical that Alexi make the swap as soon as possible.

Alexi reached the entrance to the interface corridor. He swiped his smart-badge, put his palm against a scanner, and then punched in an access code, which changed twice daily. The chambers were located off both side of the interface corridor like a series of isolation rooms in a hospital ward. However, unlike any hospital, the walls, ceilings, and floors were all constructed from thick slabs of glass, which acted as an insulator from the high voltages required to generate intense zone-jamming fields. Their newest subject, whom they were calling the Messiah, was in the first chamber on the left. Alexi would start there. Individual electronics closets were located next to each subject’s chamber. Access to the closet required the same kind of authentication used to enter the corridor. Alexi authenticated himself and stepped inside the closet. Even though the space was designed for worker access, he did not have a lot of room. Alexi allowed the door to close enough so that no camera or passerby could see what he was doing. If questions arose, he would claim he was concerned about security and double-checking circuit board serial numbers personally.

The board he was about to install contained remote-control functions that had been engineered by the ally. All the ally had needed was a single copy of the newest board, and in days they had a brand-new replacement set ready for Alexi. It was unfortunate that the old boards had been upgraded for Morrison’s discovery. When that had been done, all covert remote control was lost. Had the old boards been left in place, he would not be here now risking everything to secretly replace them once again. Alexi removed the screws and opened the access panel. He was greeted by twelve circuit boards of varying functions all plugged into a common bus. The one he needed to swap was in the first slot. He grounded himself with a wrist strap, opened the Halliburton briefcase, and carefully removed a replacement circuit board. The ally he was working with thought they were using him, but the truth was quite different. Once he had what he wanted from them, he would launch an overwhelming attack, leaving no one alive to tell the tale.

If he failed to make this board swap, he would have taken all this risk and have nothing to show for it. As long as the cloned boards were in place, he was in control of Prometheus and no one else.

Alexi was ready to perform the circuit board swap. The instructions were quite easy and he’d done it once before. In front of him was a computer screen. He switched the display to the audio/video feed for the subject’s head. There he was, their prize subject. The Messiah looked catatonic, as did all subjects, but this one had such an odd appearance. His features looked like someone had molded him from clay and smoothed every facial element too much. The subject was softly moaning, which meant nothing. They all moaned in their drug-induced dementia. Alexi powered down the interface, switched boards, and cleanly powered it back up in seconds. If the new board was working, it was programmed to generate a one-time test signal. A neural stimulation would cause the subject to blink ten times… and there it was: ten blinks. The Messiah was good to go. Alexi began closing up the access panel and was anxious to get to the next chamber.

“Alexi…” groaned the Messiah.

Startled, he glanced up from securing the old board into his briefcase. A screwdriver fell to the floor with a loud clatter. The Messiah looked like he was awake, which was impossible with all the drugs they were pumping through his veins, but he had spoken. Subjects were not supposed to be able to speak. Furthermore, how could he have known Alexi’s name? Alexi knew hybrids could capture people’s stray thoughts, but not with all the zone-jamming they had in place here. What did this mean? Was there a flaw in the shielding?

“I know you,” said the Messiah. “God wants me to deliver a message. Those who betray their father betray their God too. Those traitors who form a covenant with darkness will die of the plague along with all their kin.”

Alexi remained frozen, not sure how he could have heard what he’d just heard. The Messiah appeared to have returned to a catatonic state. This drugged lunatic had just call him a traitor. Alexi felt the cold, bone-deep fear of waking from an impossible nightmare. If his father ever found out what he’d done, he would be branded a traitor and put to death. Alexi slowly closed his Halliburton briefcase. His palms were sweaty. He would finish what he had come to do and would then devise a fatal accident for this one, no matter how good an interface subject it proved to be. Perhaps the ally could be of help. The Messiah was, after all, now a threat to both of them.

Mark Freedman – New Mexico – February 29, 0002 A.P.

Mark was driving along Interstate 40 at close to the Humvee’s maximum speed. They were nearing Flagstaff, Arizona, and would reach Pueblo Canyon in an hour. He’d still received no word from anyone there. As denial became impossible, Mark felt increasingly shell-shocked. His imagination was filled with bad endings.

He switched on the radio. The Air Truth show began to annoy him with its rumor mongering, but then grudgingly he began listening.

…It’s being reported that a kill-zone has hit the small town of Darwood, Vermont. Could the nanotech plague be back? That’s the message being broadcast on less responsible stations and chattered about in the blogosphere.

Before your run for the biohazard shelter you so smartly installed in your backyard, here’s something you may not have heard on these stations or in the blogosphere. The town of Darwood had a population of only six, and according to government investigators, the deaths look like a mass suicide by a doomsday cult. Sorry to disappoint the alarmists out there. Air Truth to the rescue once again.…

We now have some news about another cult. The new protectorate rules to keep the masses fat and sassy have been announced. We’ve heard rumors of riots inside some protectorates. The new and improved human zoo conditions that have been announced seem designed to curtail any escalation in violence. Guarantees of free food, medical, and shelter will continue as always. No one starves in a protectorate or at least no one goes hungry. Everyone there may not know it but they are all completely starved for the truth. The new opiate for the masses, which has just been announced, is that work requirements will be reduced to a three-day workweek with all lost income replaced with a monthly e-credit stipend. However, to qualify for this new deal you do have to turn in any firearms you may own and agree to inspection of your home....

Mark switched off the radio. He was not overly concerned about the kill-zone report. He and Sarah would have sensed an attack by the god-machine as they had during the plague—though as a scientist, small doubt always lingered. His bigger concern right now was how the USAG was running their protectorates. No one inside a protectorate was going to look too closely at the hand that was paying for everything. This was nothing less than a political and social coup.

“I can’t help thinking about my memories of hives using protectorates as farms for their herds of breeders,” said Sarah. “With these new rules everyone is being disarmed and made even more dependent. This has to be the hive’s plan in action!”

“The hives are what Peacekeepers should be slaughtering, not civilians.”

As Mark drove into the mountains leading to Sedona and then Pueblo Canyon itself, the weather changed from unseasonably warm to frigid. Snow falling along the roadside was beginning to take hold. The two-lane country highway was growing treacherous because no one was maintaining it. He slowed and turned off-road onto a rugged desert floor of rocks, shrubs, and grass. Instead of going straight in to Pueblo Canyon, he was heading toward the back of the plateau into which the canyon was carved. He would drive as close as he could without risking detection, planning to hike in the rest of the way while Sarah remained behind with Mustafa. From high ground he could survey the base of the canyon with binoculars to make sure no Peacekeepers were staking out the area.

Mark engaged the parking brake. Before he could open his door, Sarah had picked up her M4 rifle and gotten out. She opened the back door for Ralph. Mark climbed out of the Humvee. He could feel his face reddening.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to do a little reconnaissance,” said Sarah.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” said Mark.

“Mark, listen to me,” said Sarah. “Look how messed up you are. All this worrying is making it impossible for you to focus. I love you. Let me do this. You know this is something I’m better at. Ralph and I have been through things you cannot imagine and survived. Besides, what if you come across someone who is hiding and not giving off any stray thoughts? You know I’ll be able to pick up the emotional telltales from any hidden threat. The best sniper in the world can’t hide from me.”

Mark studied her face. Her solution felt all wrong but she was right. She was right about everything. He did not have his head screwed on very tightly.

“Okay, you go,” he said. “But you send a capsule every friggin’ second you’re gone and don’t take any chances. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Four hours later, Mark was relieved to see Sarah and Ralph appear in the distance. He was very disturbed by the memory capsules he’d seen through her eyes. The settlement had been destroyed. No bodies had been left in sight, but Sarah had spotted something that could have been a mass grave.

They were soon driving carefully through the desert scrub back toward the country highway and the entrance to Pueblo Canyon. Once Mark turned onto the pavement, he sped up a little but was driving at a speed that was far less than conditions warranted. In some part of his mind he knew he could drive faster, but he longer wanted to reach Pueblo Canyon.

As they crested the last hill before the entrance to the settlement, Mark stopped in the middle of the roadway and closed his eyes. He had just had his first glimpse of the nightmare that was awaiting them. The few buildings he could see from this vantage point had been razed by modern warfare. He was picking up no sense of life. No stray thoughts. He finally looked over at Sarah. Her expression was as dark as he felt.

“Anything?” he asked.

Sarah didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Mark lifted off the brake and slowly coasted into what was now a graveyard for hopes and dreams, as well as flesh.

He stepped out of the Humvee into the center of what had been the settlement. Fire-gutted foundations of what had been homes encircled them. The few remaining walls were riddled with bullet holes. A badly damaged Peacekeeper Stryker looked like a turtle that had been cracked open and burned.

“At least they took some of the bastards with them,” said Mark.

Sarah’s face was slick with tears, but Mark was unable to cry. She was grieving for both of them. It had not snowed since the violence. The snow was stained with blood. There were no bodies. The freshly bulldozed patch of ground that Sarah had observed from a distance was clearly their resting place.

Spotting something shiny in the snow, Mark walked toward it. As he neared the object he realized it was an earring. He picked it up. There were fleeting memories of having seen it before. He could almost taste the fear of its owner. He was having difficulty breathing; he needed to hurt whoever was responsible for this butchery. He needed to destroy McKafferty. A scene from the massacre flashed into his mind from the eyes of someone who had been recorded in the timeline archives. It was a still-image of a friend being gunned down. Another scene emerged from the same watcher. This one was full immersion into the bloodbath, including sounds and emotions. The Gatling machine guns on the Strykers were indiscriminate. The buzz saw roar from their murderous shower was deafening. They tore up everything in their path. Mark wanted the memories to stop but did not possess the tools to stop them. Why was the god-machine channeling this pornography into him? Other friends and neighbors were murdered before his eyes. His hands balled into fists. He felt the earring biting into his palm, drawing blood. He welcomed the pain. He could smell a haze of gunpowder. Another scene came and then another. He saw a helicopter fleeing the war zone with a missile chasing it and knew from this memory that Kathy was on board. A missile sizzled down from a canyon wall, taking out the Stryker with an explosion that buffeted him with heat. Each memory was a new window into terror. Each memory depicted another person senselessly murdered. All the memories were coming from one perspective, one lone woman who had the gift of an above average n-web connection and was being recorded. The carnage was poison for his soul. He felt a blow as if punched in the stomach. The scene began rotating 360 degrees. The snow-covered ground came up as a cold slap to the woman’s face. It felt like being hit by a hard thrown ice ball. Mark knew the woman had been gunned down. Mercifully, the connection was severed. His belly ached and his cheek stung from the bite of the snow. He rubbed his face to lessen the phantom sting.

The assault of memories faded, but a new rage inside him was growing out of control, feeding upon him. He sensed what felt like a cast iron door to a furnace slowly opening. At some level he realized this emotional tsunami was a powerful catalyst for change. A flow of pure, raw emotions coursed through him like a physical force and began altering his neurological structure to handle the flood. It was too late to close the furnace door. The effect was very much the same as when his brain was originally restructured years ago, when his nanotech infection spread out of control. The differences were the previous restructuring was focused in the regions of his brain that dealt with higher thinking, the intellectual processor. This restructuring was in the emotional, intuitive, and kinesthetic processors of his brain. Before this moment, he had been far more intellectual than emotional or physical. Now in the wake of this storm, he was becoming equally balanced in all awareness processors. The change was involuntary and terrifying. It was nothing less than an initiation by ritual death. His old self was dying.