AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (12 page)

21

“Worm?” Hoagie says. “Worm? Are you in there?”

“Hold on,” Paulo says, his hands deep inside one of the transport’s inverted walls, lengths of fiber optic cable strewn about him. He pulls one cable free and replaces it with a different cable. “Try it now.”

“Worm?” Hoagie asks, tapping his wrist at the point where his PSC is embedded. “Come in, buddy. Worm? You there?”

“From what I know of AiSP technology,” Dr. DeBeers says from the aft most point of the transport, trying to keep as much distance from her and the operators as possible. “If it has gone into emergency mode then it no longer exists on this vehicle. It will have uploaded to the most accessible satellite for secure download later.”

“Maybe,” Paulo says, reconnecting three other cables. “But he may not have had time. The transport may have taken the nuclear cells offline before he could upload completely.” He holds up a handful of glowing cables. “Which means Worm might be trapped in the residual power still moving through fiber optics.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to get the nuclear cells back online?” Dr. DeBeers asks. “Then you wouldn’t have to chase a ghost in the machine.”

“Nope,” Paulo says, placing two cables between his lips as he uses both hands to snake a different cable out of the wall. “Cuh sed ob a pwah suj. Fwy Wum’s pesunawidee.”

Dr. DeBeers blinks a couple of times then looks to Hoagie.

“There could be a power surge and fry Worm’s personality,” Hoagie interprets.

“And that would be a problem, I assume?” she asks.

“I doubt you’d enjoy your personality fried,” Hoagie says.

“The anthropomorphizing of the AiSPs is behavior truly singular in GenSOF squads,” Dr. DeBeers says. “In Control we do not kid ourselves that the intelligence on the other side of the voice is anything but that of a cold, calculating software protocol.”

“You live with an AiSP for a while and you learn its traits,” Ton says from the front of the transport. “It’s no longer a robotic voice buzzing in your ear. I can tell AiSP Zebra from AiSP Helio within two words.”

“I don’t believe that to be possible,” Dr. DeBeers states. “They have the same exact voice pattern. The software was designed that way to avoid human beings’ anthropomorphic nature. Assigning life and feelings to an artificial intelligence can cause psychological and emotional dependence.”

“Yep,” Hoagies nods. “You’re right there.”

Dr. DeBeers furrows her brow and studies each operator carefully. She detects no mocking or even surprise at her statements.

“You don’t care, do you?” she asks. “My opinion holds zero weight with you.”

“Not zero weight, doctor,” Ton replies, ripping open a pouch of green. He takes a long drink then shivers. “You have to understand that emotional and psychological dependence is essential to a working squad. Gen SOF operators are connected on levels that most residents of the Clean Nation cities cannot understand. Nor will they ever be able to.”

“And you don’t see this as a weakness?” Dr. DeBeers asks, nodding towards Paulo as he curses and swears at the tangle of cables in his hands. “It appears to be a distraction from your duties.”

“Our duty is to protect you and your cargo until the Clean Guard arrives,” Ton responds. “Might as well make the most efficient use of our time while we do that. Three operators in the transport with you and the cargo while one operator stands overwatch.”

“Sergeant Crouch will be able to detect any threats from his vantage point?” Dr. DeBeers asks.
She coughs slightly. “Having only one operator watching us is not a comforting thought.”

“If I send Hoagie or Paulo out on overwatch also then that leaves only two operators inside the transport,” Ton says. “You saw how fast the Cooties can attack. There are tunnels and burrows all across the Sicklands that these animals pop out from. If they attack there may not be time for two operators to get to us. I’d rather have more numbers here ready to defend you than my numbers split up and spread out.”

Dr. DeBeers nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Ton asks, perplexed by the doctor’s response. “Perhaps? No offense, doctor, but I have be
en doing this for a long, long time. I know my job just like you know yours.”

“No offense taken or meant, Lieutenant,” Dr. DeBeers replies. “But the world does change and maybe your tactics should change with it. How long precisely have you been Courier Class, Lieutenant Lane?”

“Going on fifteen years, doctor,” Ton says. “I was Assault Class for a few years after the Unseen Wars while GenSOF was in its infancy. Once command knew they could send us out into the Sicklands for more than just Cootie killing, I was promoted to Courier Class so I could escort and protect important persons such as you.”

“And you don’t think about retiring?” Dr. DeBeers asks. “Fifteen years plus of Sicklands duty must have taken its toll on you.”

Paulo pauses his work and looks over at the doctor, as does Hoagie, their faces ones of poorly concealed shock.

“Doctor, you do know what happens to GenSOF operators when they retire, right?” Hoagie asks. “It’s a one way ticket to the incinerator.”

“I will remain in the field until I can no longer perform my duties,” Ton says, his features rigid as he struggles to keep his emotions in check. “I have no desire to move up the ladder and take a position within command. I’m a Sicklands soldier, doctor. It’s what I do and all I know. I’ve lived a life I can be proud of and when it’s time to retire I will do so with honor.”

“And that’s all you want?” Dr. DeBeers asks. “To retire with honor? Don’t you have any personal attachments? Loved ones you correspond with?”

“A GenSOF operator is an orphan, doctor,” Ton explains. “Whether we still have relatives in the Clean Nation cities or not, we do not have room for family beyond our squad and GenSOF.”

“Except for our AiSP
,” Hoagie says, nudging Paulo with his boot. “How’s that coming?”

“Do you hear Worm in your ear?” Paulo asks, exasperated. “That’s how it’s coming.”

“So no single operator makes personal connections outside of GenSOF, is that what you’re saying?” Dr. DeBeers presses, her eyes locked onto Ton. She coughs again. “You are willful orphans that do as you are ordered until the day you die? Nothing to look forward to other than pink and green drinks at the end of your day?”

Ton starts to speak then closes his mouth. He reaches down and strokes the dog that lies across his feet. He takes a couple of deep breaths then turns his attention towards the open hatch and the dwindling daylight beyond.

“You know of the GenWrecks, I assume?” he asks, but continues before Dr. DeBeers can answer. “Of course you do. They are the GenSOF operators that escape before they can be retired. Those are men and women that need more than just duty in their lives. They want personal connections and they want to hang onto those personal connections even if it is not in the Clean Nation’s best interest. They are selfish and do not understand the true nature of duty and sacrifice.”

He gets up, causing Snorts to growl low, and walks past Hoagie to the hatch. He gra
sps the edges and leans out, looking left then right. He gives a sad laugh.

“GenWrecks would actually prefer the hell of the Sicklands to dying with their honor intact,” Ton says, looking back over his shoulder at the doctor. “For me living in the Sicklands is not living at all, just a miserable prelude to an even more miserable end.”

“Very admirable viewpoint, Lieutenant,” Dr. DeBeers smiles. “But you are forgetting the operators that are still a part of GenSOF and want more. The ones that ignore protocols and buck the system, as they say.”

“Don’t know any of those,” Ton replies, turning and leaning against the hatch frame. “The operators I know are devoted to GenSOF 110%. They wouldn’t dare risk exposing others to the bacterial load we carry. That would be selfish and unbecoming an operator.”

“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” Dr. DeBeers smiles as she glances at the cylinders at her back. “Considerably selfish. But sometimes selfish acts offer unselfish results.”

Ton frowns. “I think you’ve lost me, doctor,” he says. “I’m not sure what your point is.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Dr. DeBeers chuckles. “I’m a scientist by trade and by nature. I like to explore the angles of a subject to truly understand it. I am just using the opportunity to get to know a little bit more about GenSOF psychology. An efficient use of my time, don’t you think?”

Ton smiles and nods. “Yes, it is. I applaud you for that.”

“Shit!” Paulo shouts and throws the cables aside. “Every time I think I can reroute the stream, it just takes a different turn. It’s like the data that’s in the cables doesn’t want to be found and set free. The stupid shit is running from me.”

“See, Lieutenant?” Dr. DeBeers smiles. “That is an example of unhealthy anthropomorphizing. Assigning intelligent attributes to a sim
ple stream of data. There is no way it is purposefully avoiding Sergeant Kim’s attempts at reconnection. That is not technologically possible.”

“If you say so, doctor,” Ton nods. “You are the expert.”

The four dogs in the transport all perk up, their attention on the hatch. Hackles are raised and growls issued.

“Company?” Hoagie asks.

“I’d say so,” Ton replies. “Makes sense. One more assault before we lose the light. Use the twilight to confuse us.”

Hoagie and Paulo tap their visors and the world is illuminated in the rainbow spectrum of thermal imaging. They stand and snap their batons into rifles. All dogs move forward, except for Tequila who stays next to Milo’s sleeping form, and slowly exit the transport, taking automatic point.

Ton looks at Hoagie and waves his hand to the left then points at Paulo and waves to the right. The two men nod and move out in their indicted directions. Ton snaps his baton into form and places the rifle to his shoulder. He takes two steps outside the hatch and kneels down, sweeping the area, looking for any sign of trouble.

He ignores the pile of bodies that he and Hoagie stacked a few yards away. His thermal vision tells him they are all still cold and dead. Glancing up at the ridge where Blaze is stationed, Ton hopes the man’s bug hound is as alert as the
others are.

Behind him in the transport, he hears Dr. DeBeers cough again. Ton frowns, but can’t worry about that right now.

22

“Chill, girl,” Blaze whispers at Gorge as the bug hound’s growls grow louder and more intense. “You’ll give away our position.”

Gorge doesn’t listen, or at least doesn’t obey, as the volume of her growl increases. She turns to the right, takes a couple steps, her nose to the ground, then eyes up and alert, nose to the ground, eyes up. She spins about, turning 180 degrees, and locks her legs in place.

Blaze whips his rifle about, finger on the trigger, ready to kill whatever it is Gorge spots. But there’s nothing there. He squints into the gloom of the evening, straining to make out any detail that doesn’t belong against the grey and black rock.

But it’s the Sicklands and details are hard to come by. The monotone bleakness is never ending and almost as bad as having a blinding light shone in your face.

“Gorge, hunt,” Blaze orders and the dog starts to take cautious steps forward, moving past Blaze towards a pile of boulders and loose shale a few yards off.

Moving into a standing crouch, Blaze follows behind Gorge. He reaches up and taps his visor, changing the vision to thermal, but nothing shows up except the constant cools of the st
ill rocks. His rifle leading, he takes cautious step after cautious step, making sure he keeps his footing on the rough, uneven ground of the ridge.

Gorge comes to a quick halt, her right front leg up and her head down,
level with her spine. Blaze sees the pointing behavior and switches to black vision, hoping to make out a shape in the ever increasing darkness.

There. Only feet in front of Gorge, pressed up against the rocks.

“Stand and identify yourself,” Blaze says, following regulations before engaging. “Three seconds to comply or I open fire.”

“Please don’t,” a small voice says. “Please.”

“Then step away from the rocks and show yourself,” Blaze orders. “Two seconds.”

The shape separates from the rocks and Blaze switches back to regular vision as t
wo spot lights activate on his helmet. He hates to give away his position with the light, but it’s that time of evening when shadows become shapes and shapes become shadows.

Deadlight, as the GenSOF squads call it.

“Don’t shoot,” the shape says. “Please.”

“Identify yourself, Cootie,” Blaze says.

“I…I’m looking for my mother,” the shape whimpers. “Have…have you seen her?”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Blaze says. “You may be short, but you aren’t a kid.”

The shape pushes back a ratty hood and Blaze tries not to react. Before him is the sore encrusted face of a young boy. Phosphorescent pus oozes from several spots on the child’s forehead.

“Jesus,” Blaze says.

Gorge growls and moves in, forcing the boy to push himself closer to the rocks.

“I don’t want to die or get bit,” the boy says. “Please, please don’t kill me.”

“Sorry, kid,” Blaze says. “You’re what I’m trained to kill.”

“We are more than our training,” the kid says as if he’s learned it by wrote. “We are more than honor and duty. We are human beings. And we are obligated to protect all other human beings. That is our true mission.”

“What…what did you say?” Blaze whispers, a cold chill going up his spine. “Where’d you hear that?”

The boy shrugs.

“You speak pretty well for a Cootie,” Blaze says. “Not all mumbled garble.”

The boy shrugs again.

“What’s your name?” Blaze asks.

“Did you kill my mother?” the boy asks, craning his neck so he can see past Blaze and down at the transport below. “Is she stacked down there? One of the bodies?”

“I asked for your name, kid,” Blaze snaps. “Answer the damn question.”

“I asked a question first,” the boy says. “Is she dead? Did you kill her? Can I get her body from the stack? I just want to take her home. Put her to rest like she puts me to rest every night.”

“Jesus, kid, shut up,” Blaze says. “You’re not making this easy.”

“Nothing is easy in the Sicklands,” the boy r
eplies. “But everything is free and-” The kid looks towards the transport again and his eyes go wide. “Son of a bitch! Really?”

With surprising speed, the boy pushes away from the rock and jumps off the ridge, tucking and rolling himself down the hillside.

“Shit!” Blaze shouts. “Gorge! Fetch!”

The bug hound takes off after her target, leaping into the air, flying for several feet before she lands on the hillside, not a step lost or stride miscalculated. Blaze hurries after her, but he doesn’t have the surefootedness of a bug hound, and he has to be careful not to snap an ankle in a hidden hole or take a tumble and break his neck.

“Zebra!” he shouts down at the transport. “Incoming!”