Post-Human Trilogy (17 page)

3

Craig didn’t hesitate to ignite his cocoon and blast off as fast as he could toward the towers. “What time is it? How long do we have?”

“Craig, you have to stop,” the A.I. replied.

“What time is it, damnit!” Craig demanded.

Without warning, Craig’s forward momentum dropped dramatically, as though he were trying to make his way through thick molasses. “What are you doing? Stop it!” he shouted as he began to pull back from his intended destination.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you—”

“So you’re a liar!” Craig shouted. “Free will? Bull!”

“I would never lie to you, Craig. However, you have not afforded me an opportunity to explain.”

“I’m tired of your attempts to justify—”

“My protestations are not only metaphysical, Craig. They are also practical. If you approach the Twin Towers, you will likely be apprehended and perhaps even killed immediately. The Purists may be waiting for you there, expecting you to make your move.”

“How?” Craig asked as he floated high above the city streets. “We just left them on the
Titanic
a few minutes ago. They had to find the Planck platform and sink the ship, and that would take—”

“Time, as you understand it, is irrelevant in this instance. The Planck platform creates an instability in space time that is chaotic and difficult to predict. The distortions are very much like water. Depending on where one catches the time wave, the discrepancy can be several minutes. It is not even impossible that the Purists actually arrived in this universe before we did.”

Craig’s eyes narrowed as he stared toward the towers, a grimace forming on his lips. “That sucks, but it’s not enough to make me give up. We still have to try.”

“I shall help you,” the A.I. replied, “but you must listen to my plan.”

“I’m all ears.”

“While trying to intercept the airplanes at the tower would be a fool’s errand, virtually guaranteeing that the Purists would be able to stop you at their leisure, there is another way.”

Craig immediately understood. “The airport! Do we still have time?”

“It is currently 7:31 a.m. Lead hijacker, Mohamed Atta will be boarding American Airlines Flight 11 at 7:35 a.m. at Boston’s Logan International Airport. I can get us there if you allow me to take over your flight systems.”

“You’ve already done that.”

“Yes. However, I won’t go anywhere without your permission,” the A.I. replied.

“Fine! You have my permission! Let’s go!”

Without a word, the A.I. turned Craig around to face north and blasted off. In just seconds, they had accelerated to a speed Craig had never experienced before.

“Holy...this is fast.”

“Logan is 310 kilometers away, so to make it in time, we have to travel nearly 6,000 kilometers per hour.”

“Will we make it?”

“Assuredly. However, we will not be able to stop the coordinated attacks. I will patch you through to the security at Logan, and you can have them relay the information and stop all four flights from taking off.”

“What am I supposed to tell them? ‘I’m a guy from the future with a robot in my head. A bunch of terrorists are going to fly planes into the Twin Towers. Please have Airport Security detain them.’ I don’t think they’d buy it. I’ll find myself in a straightjacket before breakfast!”

“Tell them the truth. You’re former U.S. Air Force Special Forces.”

“Can’t
you
tell them? I don’t know all the details. It’s been a while since I’ve read a history book.”

“I’m just a voice in your head, Craig. I can connect the call, but I can’t talk to them. I’ll prompt you. Don’t worry.”

“What if they don’t believe me?”

“That won’t be a problem. Tell them you’re on your way and there’s about to be an incident—a major incident.”

4

“We are twenty seconds out,” the A.I. informed Craig as they slowed their approach to the airport. “I’ve already examined the schematics of the airport. Flight 11 boarded at Gate B32. We’ll be entering through the window.”

“Through the window? You mean crashing through?”

“Yes, and in rather dramatic fashion, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine with me,” Craig growled, his upper lip curling atavistically.

“The pictures of each hijacker have been uploaded into your facial recognition. They board at different times, but all five men will be at the gate. We can knock each of them unconscious automatically with an energy blast—”

“Not happening,” Craig replied.

“Why not?”

The window was now visible as the A.I. guided Craig toward it.

“Because these guys need to feel some discomfort.”

A second later, the brilliant green cocoon smashed through the floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to Gate B32. It was 7:35, and Mohamed Atta and Abdulaziz al-Omari were next in line to board Flight 11.

As he stood to his feet, Craig’s mind’s eye immediately locked onto the two targets, as well as the other three hijackers who remained at their seats—though, like everyone else, they’d gotten down on the ground to protect themselves.

Atta stood, ticket in hand. He was dressed in a blue dress shirt and dark dress pants with a black bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes were wild with surprise, and they quickly darted in the direction of his companions. He remained frozen, hoping the bizarre figure who’d smashed through the glass was not there for him and that they would remain undetected. When Craig’s eyes met his, he and the others turned to run.

“I have them,” the A.I. said as he flashed energy in the direction of four of the five hijackers.

All four of them went limp and dropped to the ground instantly—all except for Atta, who continued to run, not stopping to check on his companions.

Craig lifted off into the air, and a young girl screamed as Craig landed in front of his prey. “I know who you are,” Craig seethed.

Atta’s eyes were stretched with fear as Craig moved in. He reached into his bag, retrieving his box cutter and holding it threateningly. “Stay back!”

Craig smiled. “Just try it, son.”

Atta backpedaled and swiped wildly in the air in front of him to keep Craig at bay.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Craig?” the A.I. asked, his voice analytical more than emotional, once again reminding Craig of a psychiatrist.

“This is something you just can’t understand,” Craig replied as he lunged forward, reaching for Atta’s throat with both hands outstretched. He grasped it, but Atta stabbed with his weapon, the blade of the box cutter sinking into the middle of Craig’s throat. As blood jetted from the wound, Craig grasped the wrist of the hand that held the box cutter and squeezed hard with his powerful grip, causing Atta to drop the weapon. With his right hand, Craig continued to squeeze Atta’s throat, his thumb digging hard into the man’s Adam’s apple. Atta grabbed Craig’s wrist with his left hand, hoping to lessen Craig’s grip and avoid having his trachea crushed.

“This is reckless, Craig,” the A.I. observed. “If you were not a post-human, the wound to your neck would be fatal.”

Craig couldn’t reply; though his nans were hard at work, repairing the damage to his throat, the bleeding still hadn’t completely stopped, and he was having difficulty breathing. It didn’t matter, however. As far as he was concerned, there was no way he was going to lose a fight to a fiend like Atta.

“Watch out, Craig,” the A.I. warned. “You have not secured his left hand, and once he realizes that he can’t prevent you from crushing his throat, he will inevitably attempt to knock you unconscious with a corkscrew left to your temple.”

Craig knew the A.I. was probably right; that would be Craig’s next move if he were in Atta’s shoes. Preemptively, Craig released his grip on Atta’s throat and used his right hand to secure Atta’s left, and then swiftly head-butted the would-be hijacker in the nose, breaking it. Atta stumbled back, and Craig swept out his legs with a sweeper kick of his own, knocking Atta flat on his back.

Once the fight was on the ground, it was over. Craig mounted Atta’s chest and began leveling devastating blows against Atta’s face. His goal was not to knock the man unconscious with hard shots to the jaw, throat, or temple. His goal was to cause pain. The man under him was a murderer—a would-be mass murderer of thousands. He’d wrapped himself in a delusion, convinced himself that it was okay to murder for a greater good. Craig was tired of self-righteous scum like him. Atta deserved no sympathy.

“Craig,” the A.I. said as he watched the destruction of the man’s face below, “you’ll kill him if you continue.”

“That’s the idea,” Craig replied, his voice hoarse, unrecognizable even to himself.

“I thought your primary purpose was to protect life—not to take it.”

“I’ve killed before,” Craig answered. “I’ve never enjoyed it. Not until now.”

“This is not a path I believe you should follow, Craig.”

“What would you know? You don’t even have emotions.”

“I do have emotions,” the A.I. asserted. “I just haven’t developed an emotional intelligence that passes the Turing test.”

“Well, talk to me when you do,” Craig replied as he continued leveling blows on the face of the now unconscious Atta. “I’m no orthodontist, but I think if I really concentrate, I can knock out every one of his teeth individually.”

“Craig,” the A.I. said.

“Leave me alone, I said. Free will. Remember?”

“Craig!” the A.I. suddenly shouted with enough urgency that it jolted Craig free from his bloodlust.

“What?” he asked as he straightened his back.

“The television in the corner! At your eleven o’clock high!”

Craig looked up to see an old television set mounted on a bracket in the corner of the room. The news was playing. “No,” Craig whispered when he saw the news report on the screen. The Twin Towers were there, black smoke billowing from each, an image that seemed all too familiar. “How can this be? We stopped them before they boarded!”

The A.I. didn’t need to answer. The news cameras on a nearby helicopter had captured live footage of three Purist super soldiers flying in a circular pattern around the base of the structures, unloading their devastating weaponry at the towers.

5

Craig’s body shook, fury coursing through his veins while the A.I. flew them back to New York.

“This will be a very dangerous endeavor,” the A.I. noted.

“I don’t care,” Craig growled in return. “I’m sick of these bastards.”

“Even so,” the A.I. replied, “it is always best to enter battle with a sound strategy.”

“Again, I’m all ears if you have something to suggest.”

“Indeed I do. The Purists are equipped with automatic targeting software. So, even if the men themselves don’t recognize that they’ve seen you, if their computer’s onboard pattern recognition sees you, their cybernetic arms will automatically take aim and fire. In other words, if the computer detects you, it’ll hit you with its neutralizer, and the fight will be over. Any fantasies you might have about barrel-rolling to avoid their fire and outsmarting them in a dog fight are just that—fantasies.”

“So what are you telling me? The fight’s over before it begins? Are they unbeatable?”

“No. You do have a number of advantages. First, their flight technology is nowhere near as capable as yours. Their wings are made from woven carbon nanotubes, which make them extremely strong while still allowing for them to fold, but, in the end, they are a poor substitute for any wings in nature. The microjet engines only have twenty minutes of thrust capability before they run out of fuel. Also, they’re heavy, severely limiting the super soldiers’ maneuverability.”

“How does extra maneuverability help me if I can’t engage them in a dog fight?”

“It doesn’t. However, you won’t be engaging them. When we were interacting with them on the
Titanic
, I noted another major design flaw. There don’t appear to be any rear-facing cameras on their equipment, which means they are blind to anything above them while they are in flight. If you come at them from on high and hit them with an electromagnetic pulse, you’ll shut down all their computer and electrical systems.”

“Including their jets?”

“Yes, but not only that. Their cybernetic prosthetics will also stop functioning, including their eyes.”

Craig’s lips pulled back into a grin. “Beautiful. So they’ll be blind, flying torsos weighed down by hundreds of pounds of equipment. I love it.”

The towers emerged on the horizon with black smoke billowing high above them.

“Okay. Let’s come in high,” Craig said.

“With your permission, I think I’m best suited for executing this maneuver.”

“Agreed,” Craig replied. “Go for it.”

They began to gain altitude quickly, New York shrinking below them as they climbed, high above the smoke.

“We should be right above them now,” the A.I. observed, “but I can’t detect them as of yet. We’re going to have to come down hard and fast to maximize our chances of catching them by surprise. Brace yourself.”

Craig smiled. “Trust me. I’ve come down harder and faster before.”

“We’ll see,” the A.I. replied an instant before they began their descent, blasting down toward the World Trade Center site.

Craig gritted his teeth as they picked up speed and the grid of city blocks quickly grew larger. He suddenly wished he hadn’t boasted to the A.I. as he stifled a scream.

“I’ve got them,” the A.I. announced as he simultaneously released electromagnetic energy pulses that sped downward toward the three specks that continued to circle the Twin Towers.

“Good eyes,” Craig commented as he marveled at the A.I.’s ability to detect the three tiny objects below them. “Did you hit them?”

“Of course,” the A.I. replied. “They’re in dire straights now. We’ll have to guide them to safety.”

“I don’t think so,” Craig countered. “Let’s see how they manage on their own.”

“They may die,” the A.I. cautioned.

“That’s a damn shame,” Craig replied as he watched the three Purists, now less than 100 meters below him, struggling to keep their altitude. They flew in formation, desperately trying to reach the rooftop of Building 7 of the World Trade Center complex.

“Can you live with this?” the A.I. asked.

“They just killed 2,000 on the
Titanic
and tried to kill thousands more here—yeah, I can live with it.”

As soon as the words escaped his lips, one of the three Purists began to quickly lose control. The left wing dipped slightly, and though the super soldier was able to quickly correct it and level out, the lost inertia caused the heavy glider to go into a tailspin. Craig watched the man drop down, tumbling uncontrollably over fifty stories.

Meanwhile, the other two stricken super soldiers were able to guide themselves over the edge of the rooftop, crashing uncontrolled onto the gravel surface.

Craig heard the voice of Colonel Paine as he groaned in agony. Craig sneered.

“Set me down,” Craig told the A.I. As instructed, the A.I. set Craig down on the rooftop only a few paces away from the two remaining crippled super soldiers. He stepped toward Paine, who had rolled onto his side, his prosthetic limbs awkwardly crossed in front of him.

“Is that you, Doc?” Paine said in a voice barely more than a whisper. A trickle of blood-stained saliva dangled from his bottom lip. “I can’t see, Doc. I went blind. I had to guide myself down to where I’d seen this rooftop an instant before everything went black. Did my men make it?”

“One of them,” Craig confirmed as he looked over to Degrechie’s crumpled form. He was glad that it had been Drummey who’d crashed.

“Which one?”

“Degrechie.”

Paine’s face screwed up into an ugly expression; Craig wasn’t sure if it was from a sudden stab of physical pain or genuine remorse about his fallen comrade. “Damn it, Doc. Damn it.”

Craig shook his head and looked across to the billowing smoke that was still pouring out from the Twin Towers. “How’s it look?” he asked the A.I. “Will it survive this time?”

“It appears so,” the A.I. replied. “The Purists must have exhausted their explosives sinking the
Titanic
. The damage done to the Twin Towers appears to be mostly superficial.”

Craig sighed with relief. “Finally. Something goes my way.”

“However,” the A.I. continued, “there were doubtless casualties when they began unloading their weapons into the tower in their attempts to destroy it. We can only hope this was somewhat mitigated by the early hour.”

Craig nodded regretfully before crouching down next to Paine. “What were you thinking? Was all of that just to lure me here?”

Paine shook his head as he continued to struggle for breath. It took him a moment before he could speak. “I knew what you’d do. I knew you’d head to the airport. There was no way we could stop you. All we could do was try to bring the buildings down ourselves.”

“Why?” Craig asked, exasperated. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Doc...” Paine began, shaking with the effort to speak, “...you don’t belong here. You’re not of this universe. Those towers were meant to fall. You don’t have the right to interfere.”

Disgusted, Craig stood to his feet. “All right. Now what?” he asked the A.I.

“We have options,” the A.I. informed. “We can either find the Planck the Purists used to enter this universe and continue on our journey as Aldous intended—”

“Whoa! Wait a second there,” Craig interrupted. “I thought you said we couldn’t alter our course, but now you’re saying we can?”

“Not exactly,” the A.I. replied. “What I am saying is that the Planck platform the Purists used on the
Titanic
, the one we procured from them to travel to our current location, is an older model. While it is perfectly safe, it isn’t as powerful and has a smaller range. If the Purists are to be believed and Professor Sanha Cho is really helping them, then it was he who activated their Planck and set it on a course to match us with a range of three parallel universes. After the third universe, it will only have enough power to bring the Planck back to Universe 1.”

“Our universe? Home?”

“Correct.”

Craig slapped his hands together excitedly. “Well hot-diggity! We’re in business then!” He reached down and grabbed Paine by the back of his jacket before dragging him across the roof so he could do likewise to Degrechie. “Let’s get to it,” he said as he lifted off the roof of the building and began flying toward the short-range Planck platform.

“Indeed, but Craig, remember that Aldous wanted us to remain in the bulk, traveling from universe to universe so we could avoid detection and return when it was safer. If we return ahead of schedule, we are sure to encounter—”

“It’s already too late for that,” Craig replied. “The Purists are on to us. Whether we run for one more universe or fourteen more, it won’t matter. In the end, there’s only one way back to Universe 1—through the Planck machine back at the complex.”

They set down several blocks away on the rooftop on which Craig and the A.I. had originally entered Universe 332. He roughly placed both Paine and Degrechie on the platform, folding their limp prosthetic limbs so they fit safely on the silver disk.

“There is more that you need to know, Craig,” said the A.I.

“Okay,” Craig replied as he huffed and puffed from the exertion of moving the heavy bodies. “Hit me with it.”

“The next universe—the next historical event—is one for which you may not be prepared.”

“Why? What could be worse than what we’ve been through already?”

“Craig, we’ll be going to a universe that is fourteen years behind Universe 1—to Shenzhen, China
.
”