Skies Over Tomorrow: Constellation (4 page)

“Hold it. Hold it. Pan back. Zoom out for a second,” Simone said. “I don't believe this. Intensify the X-ray on the wife. Overlay thermograph, render 10-24. OK, zoom in by point five. Pan down. Stop.” Simone fell quiet; the tiny heartbeat took her by surprise. “Did you know about this?”

“Yes,” said Attila.

“I just asked you if they had a child.”

“It was a hypothetical question, which was ignored and answered with the presumption that you read the intel report prior to any briefing you had before executing this assignment. Were you not aware of the condition of primary target two?”

“No, and I read the report. In fact, I memorized it. Nothing said anything about her being pregnant, Attila—nothing. Burke even said it was just to be the minister and his wife.”

“It was Major Burke who downloaded a copy of the report into my memory bank. It would seem he was unsure of your commitment to this mission.”

Anger weighed on Simone's face. “How far along is it?”

Attila assessed the stage of development of the fetus, and said, “Four months, two weeks, and three days. How do you wish to proceed?”

“You still think we're doing this for a better future?”

“Yes.”

“Figured as much.”

“The procession is 18.8 kilometers away,” said Attila. “How do you wish to proceed?”

“Arm Excalibur missiles. Target the APV and the third and fourth Hummers.”

“Excalibur missiles armed and targets locked.”

Simone waited as her heart pumped adrenaline through her system, chilling her limbs and numbing her nerves. She followed her training and detached herself from all emotions—as best she could. She reminded herself that she was an Army Predator; she would become as indifferent as her enemy, but not like her enemy. Yet despite all that had happened—her brother's death, America's fall, the war, her mission—she knew in her heart that two wrongs do not make a right; however, perhaps it was as Burke had said. Perhaps it does make things even. Though human nature dictated it, she realized there was no justification for revenge. Perhaps Burke was right all along. Perhaps revenge is best when it is uncomplicated. Revenge. In her numb state, the instincts were easy to accept.

“Sixteen point five kilometers,” Attila said. “Actual contact in fifteen minutes.”

“Disengage the Specter system.”

“Specter system disengaged.”

“Fire.”

The compact, back-mounted missile system unfolded, uncovering two racks of arsenals. One arm extended three, small satellite-guided missiles. Positioned toward the sky, they shot upward and emerged from the tree line with sprouted, forward-swept wings. Once they were airborne, Simone darted across the expressway. Though a light smoke trail was left after a swift departure, it was still possible for the missiles to be traced back to the launch site. Simone was quick to settle down along the opposite side of the six-lane freeway and have Attila make a quick sweep of the area. No enemy activity. For a few minutes, everything was silent. Then thunderous explosions roared from the distance.

“The APV and escorts three and four have been destroyed,” Attila said. “Remaining targets have increased speed to 160 kilometers per hour. Actual contact in seven minutes.”

Thoughts of her brother and her country surfaced again. Surely there was more to the retribution she was to deliver than revenge. More to her purpose than killing. More. Is it really for a better future? The future. Nature kills to ensure life. Could it be that the purpose of war—the real truth behind the evolution of humanity—is a destructive behavior that only serves the greater purpose of keeping populations of people in check, just to assure the advancement of humanity's best attributes and qualities?

“Actual contact in five minutes,” said Attila.

Simone was quiet.

“Actual contact in three…”

“Arm LGMs.”

“Laser-guided missiles armed.”

Simone inhaled and released a deep breath.

“Actual contact in two minutes.”

A red dot rested on the asphalt's horizon. It marked the end of a kilometer-long stretch where the missiles were to meet their targets as they rolled up. The left rack, which held the three laser-guided munitions, swiveled up and rotated, and orientated the payload parallel to the ground. And Simone waited.

The lead Hummer and the Lexus, followed by the second Hummer, streamed around the bend and up and over the horizon. A single projectile dashed from the woods. The first Hummer swerved to avoid the missile, but to no avail, and met it head on. The Lexus barreled through the horrid explosion of its lead escort, further scattering its flaming debris. Simone was quick to take hold of her Rapture, switch it to auto, and bellow a tune of uranium-tipped rounds from the forest's edge. The rapid, continuous volley of slugs blew out the tires and perforated the armored front end of the limo. She then took in that tracer shots compromised her position, as the second escort targeted her locale and returned fire. Bullets pelted and ricocheted off her Hard Shell. “Attila, take it out,” she said, relentless in machine-gunning the diplomatic sedan.

Another projectile darted off and hit its mark. The escort exploded into a fireball and careened into the rear of the Lexus, at which point Simone ceased fire. The limousine swayed back and forth before crossing the divide. The driver managed to steer the car toward the wooded spot from which the assault came, and as it leaped from the short embankment, Simone ran and tumbled clear, as the Lexus smashed into the trunk of a tree.

Hazy, gray smoke drifted about when the vehicle came to rest, and Simone stood.

“Are they dead?” she said. “The baby. What about the baby?”

“The fetus—”

Small arms fire crackled; glass of the Lexus shattered. In the second nine-millimeter rounds struck the Army Predator, one round bursting a spotlight eye lens, Simone responded with a short spread. The overpowering force of ten rounds riddled the passenger area of the limo, causing the door to fall off and expose the dead occupants within.

“Status, Attila.”

“The Hard—”

“The baby, Attila, what about the baby?”

“You killed it.”

Simone lowered her weapon and stood in place for a moment. She looked, as the bodyguards lay sprawled over the minister, who died in a sitting position with his head tilted back against the headrest of his seat. The wife lay slouched against the other door; her head tilted back and protruded through the frame of its broken window. From her side, smoke drifted from the barrel of the gun she clutched in her right hand, as her left hand rested on her bloodied belly. Simone tried to feel some satisfaction for avenging her brother—or at least her country—but contentment eluded her. The killing of the unborn child kept her removed from the ordeal, as she realized with its death went her only chance of deliverance to peace of mind. For her to rationalize her actions as an Army Predator would be pointless. She was a killer—plain and simple.

Leaving the fiery destruction of life behind, Simone darted back across the highway and traversed the forest jungle to the shore.

“There are a number of enemy units converging on the kill site. Two APVs carrying fifteen soldiers each will have arrived from the northeast in twenty minutes. A medical helicopter, one transport helicopter with twenty soldiers, and two gunships will have arrived from the northwest in ten minutes. We have a seven-minute lead.”

“That's pretty good,” said Simone.

“On the contrary, we are approaching a unit of five enemy Powered Insecta Gun Suits spread out in a twenty-kilometer line.”

“A net, huh?”

“Probability of slipping pass the line is in our favor.”

“They'll slip by us,” said Simone. “ETA of contact.”

“Forty minutes.”

“Initiate lure and booby trap protocol for the missile pack and jettison. Then find a tactical place to hide in twenty minutes, start cooling down five prior, engage the Specter system, and send out the extraction call.”

“Understood.”

“It's going to be close when we stop.”

“I concur.”

“Wind is beautiful. A breeze that flows over me fondles my skin; its caressing power. Yet strong is it to reshape all created by God and man—from what was, to what is, to what will be. I am the wind.”

“Marc, please, don't,” I pleaded. My heart sank, and I was scared that part of my existence would die with him.

“Naomi, there is no other choice.”

“I can take us away from here, somewhere safe.”

“No,” he said. “Besides you're too weak to teleport us both. You—”

“Don't say it. I'm not going. Not with—”

“Naomi, you promised.”

He stunned me. Looking into his steel blue eyes that were as cold as they were and that showed no fear, no love, I knew then I disappointed him; he had to remind me of the promise. As much as I loved him, that love could never interfere with our struggle to be free. Feelings of love inspired weakness, an Achilles' heel to be exploited by our enemy. I wanted to apologize, only that would have made him angrier. “Here,” I said as I reached under my cloak and retrieved my gun, a parting gesture of good-bye. For one instance, as we looked at each other, as we crouched behind metal crates, hiding in the shadowy Gagarin mine shafts of Earth's moon, his eyes softened. The subtle emotion filled my heart and caused my eyes to swell; a tear fell to my cheek.

“Good-bye, Naomi.”

I longed to kiss him, or to leave him with a peck on the cheek, but I stood and backed away, slow to leave his side while looking down at him.

“Before you go,” he said, “promise me one last thing.”

I returned to him in a skip and knelt, taking hold of his hand.

“The worst will probably come to be, and if I am no longer, promise me you will not avenge me.”

“What? Are you crazy? You can't ask me to do such a thing.”

“It's all I ask of you, Naomi. Promise me.”

I shook my head, believing that if the GDI were to kill my love, then I shall make them pay.

“Listen,” he said. “If you take action on them, they will counter and be even more relentless in neutralizing us. Naomi, please, if not for me, then for the survival of our people.”

“How long have we waited? They act as if they are gods.”

“Naomi.”

“No. They have already begun to kill us off. Many have turned the other cheek and died as a consequence. Up until now, I have listened to you, followed and supported you, but enough is enough, Marc. If tomorrow—if I—if the worst comes to be, and you are no longer, then revenge shall be all that I have.”

“Naomi, please think for a minute. Do you really want the genocide of our people on your hands? If you retaliate, Carmichael—”

“Carmichael!” I frowned. “Our Father, the god of gods. His treacherous heart turned the High Council against us. In turn, they have taught Normals to hate us. They believe we are inferior, uncultured, alien. The lies are endless, and…”

“I know, but be patient. There is a time for everything, but it's just not our time yet.”

“…when in fact they fear us. In creating us for work they would never do, Carmichael sought to make us as perfect as possible, and in succeeding, the Federation was built upon our backs with our blood and tears. For all that we slaved for, Marc, what do we get in return? Fear that produces ignorance. We've suffered enough. We are superior, for we are the next step in human evolution. To ensure our survival, we must stand and fight back.”

“Just promise me, Naomi.” His eyes hardened.

I again stood and looked upon him. I was torn. One promise had already limited my emotions, and I did not want to make another one that would further hold back more of my feelings. My rage and frustration of living as a class B human could not—would not—be controlled by a promise. I wanted the magisterial society of Mars to know of my misery. To turn the grief they have inflicted back onto to them. I swore to myself that it had to be that way. “All right, Marc. I promise.” His eyes again softened, and I felt deceitful. The guilt felt as though a cold knife had sliced into my heart. The last thing I wanted was to deceive my love. Another tear fell. “Good-bye, Marc.”

He reached up and grasped my hand, rubbing the back of it with a gentle touch of his thumb. I had to let him go, as my vision of him blurred. Crisp tingles ran the length of my spine and into my limbs. My skin felt cool, as though wet from isopropyl alcohol that then evaporated from the subtlest flow of air. At the same time a warm sensation radiated outward from my womb. Marc melded with the gloomy atmosphere. I heard his heart pounding; he was petrified, but I sensed that he was happy as well. I hated leaving him to face death alone. Then the atoms that gave form to my physical existence shattered and dispersed and gradually dissipated. The transformation from the physical to the spiritual was exhilarating. I was truly free.

Marc had once asked me what teleporting really felt like. It was on our first engagement, and as we held each other, I avoided the question with a shy, girlish smile. Too embarrassed to tell him, I let him experience it for himself. I took him to Mars; he had always wanted to see the Red Planet. After the jump, he said it initially felt as if a colony of fire ants had bitten every square millimeter of his body—a far cry from the way I described the feeling. On our third engagement, the first time we had kissed, he asked me again what teleporting felt like. I told him that it felt like a multi-orgasm. We both blushed. I had explained that these waves of spiritual pleasure elevated me to a higher state of existence, at which I became one with time and space and my surroundings.

I floated like a butterfly through the earth and tunnels, up to the craters of the moon surface; and on into the vast playground that was space. Though serene, I felt the pulse of the universe. It was alive, yet dying. Expanding, but contracting. It was dark and bright. I was one with it and could go anywhere. I often visited worlds unknown—unknown even to the Federation. My destiny, though, awaited me on Mars, and I moved toward the Red Planet to embrace it.

The scattered molecules of my body broke their union with the cosmos and manifested in a grassy field. I was always amazed by my ability to travel the stars. In seconds, I traveled from Gagarin on the dark side of Earth's moon to Archimedes Park in sector nine of Sapphire, the largest and most populated biosphere of the Federation's capital colony, on Tharsis, Mars. I often visited this park when it closed for the day, and it was then that I could be alone and ponder life. This time was different. The promise to Marc that bound my love for him, yet kept me strong and focused, had to be untied. It was to be the only time I would allow myself to grieve for him. It felt necessary.

As I lay on the cushion of green, looking up to the composite glass and alloy web that enclosed over and supported life on the planet, up to the framed views of the heavens' spectacular beauty, I lamented. The tears flowed from my eyes. “Forgive me, Marc. I'll miss you.” I lay there with my lacrimation cooling from the simulated wind that whisked over me and made the stalks crowded about me dance in its wake. My weak soul. I succumbed to sleep, as it crept upon me like the moon eclipsing the sun.

I awoke three hours later, rejuvenated. The heavens were still framed above, though now there were different perspectives. I felt I had become one with the planet as it rotated and revolved, and that made me want to lay there forever. Forever, though, was like some elusive dream that could never be grasped—like a fistful of sand in which the grains of the dream slipped through the cracks of the fingers and hand. I stretched, and my gape waned sleepiness from my body. I sat up and held myself, looking to the heart of Sapphire. There, in the judicial district, the William S. Cheney building stood, projecting upward some twenty-one meters. Its frame rounded at the corners and sat recessed of its large windows. I had a feeling Carmichael was there. The transparent building supported a triangular monolith that served as a heliport, and I watched a transport disappear into the pyramid. Standing, I began to walk, and I wondered if I could kill him—if it was my destiny to kill the man that created my kind.

A product of genetic engineering and cloning, we were officially termed as class B humans. We were created for the Federation's conquest of the universe. We were, as Carmichael had said out of spite many times, nothing more than tools. We were harvesters of asteroids, miners of many moons, terraformers, and test subjects. Normals could not—and would not—be asked to make the sacrifices we made, but they more than benefited from our exploits.

My kind was born from the Venus Project. It originated on the science station, Origin, orbiting Earth. ALF Tech—Artificial Life Forms and Technology Incorporated—maintained oversight of the facility and was, for all intents and purposes, a self-governing body independent of the Federation. Of late, in preparation for an armed conflict with one of its colonies, the High Council requested ALF Tech improve gunsuits and stellar and galaxy class cruisers and destroyers. It seemed they did not take well to the colonists laying claim to the planet of Morrilla and suing for independence. Other than that, however, ALF Tech's primary affair was the manufacturing of androids, bioroids, and replicants.

It was not until the conglomerate was approached by Councilor John Carmichael, who was appointed to serve on the board of the High Council as its fourth arbiter, that a hand was lent to human evolution. Hyper sapiens were born as a result. The idea that gave way to my existence was for human beings to be adept enough to survive the extremes of colonizing space and new worlds. To accomplish this end, scientists of ALF Tech created us new breed of Homo sapiens with full use of the brain at birth. This capability made us smarter and stronger. The offspring of Normals could not comprehend and engage in idle conversations at ten months of age, or run with the grace of a twenty-year-old within the first year of life. Even more, their children did not have extrasensory perception—yes, ESP, a trait that all Hyper sapiens have in varying degrees.

The genome scientists never isolated what endowed us with what they referred to as the “Plus Factor.” After all, they believed they got more than what they had expected. I am sure they felt that just as long as they maintained control of us, they had nothing to worry about. Of course that perception shattered when their worst fear became reality. One of us defied being a slave. Gailen was his name.

I still remember the shock on their faces, as the realization of the grave mistake they had made by creating us dawned itself upon them, at which point there was nothing they could do to correct it. After the violent incident that almost destroyed the Origin and led to Gailen's freedom, we became feared. To ease their fears, we restrained—even hid—our ESP traits. As we did so, we refined our unique abilities. I learned the arts of teleportation and psychokinesis—capabilities that helped me escape numerous
accidents
.

Though we once had been revered, the Federation now sought to be rid of us. There were some of us, in the beginning, that wanted to topple the Martian government, and sentiments like that added to the extreme agitation of Carmichael and the High Council. Others of us, like Marc, believed otherwise. We felt compelled to prove that we, for the most part, were as much a part of the society as anyone else. After all, we were productive people, contributing to the good of the Federation. But somehow that did not matter. We were rejected and outlawed, especially from Tharsis, though some of us felt it was home, and risked the consequences of establishing a life on Mars.

The universal broadcasts of executions of class B humans were meant to gain public support in discouraging and scaring us away from the planet. If anything, that only made us valiant in our efforts to have freedom—to taste life—for if we were to die, then we would rather do so having savored the fruits of our labor. Yet, as I looked to the capitol building, I swore they would never catch me.

Terrorists, I thought. We were never really human in their eyes, just tools out of control. I wasted no more time; I would be what they wanted me to be—a terrorist. What else was there to do, with the Federation weighing down on us? There was no choice but to counteract, and so I moved to the Cheney building.

I emerged into a corridor of mirrors and reddish soapstone. Its grated ceiling exposed ventilation, electrical, and lighting systems, and the floor was a type of linoleum that felt as soft as plush carpet but left no depressions from stepping on it, as I walked to the double glass doors at the far end. My reflection along the mirrored side stared at me, questioning my intentions. Looking past myself to the features of the soapstone wall, they were spectacular. The deep reddish tint almost matched my hair. I then pulled the cowl of my cloak over my head, and from the way it draped, I looked to be akin to the Grim Reaper. Even so, I again felt weak.

I thought in time I would have adjusted to teleporting; yet every time I did it, the dizzy spells occurred, and fatigue settled in my bones and muscles. Though I felt the need to rest, I carried on. Nearer to the glass entry, the Federation image etched into and split between the doors became distinct. A symbolic phoenix sat behind the horizon of Mars with sunbeams shooting outward in all directions, and at the bottom was the acronym GFM: Galactic Federation of Mars.

Even before reaching the handles of the doors, at my will, they twisted downward, and the entry pulled open. It remained open as I crossed its threshold into the congressional court. Standing at the entrance, I looked about. The lights were dim and made the seating areas in the upper back sections pitch black. Recessed down-lights along the walls highlighted the gold chrome frames of Martian landscapes and portraits. The doors closed at my suggestion. The space seated about 500 people in a semi-circle that centered on The Floor of the Parliament, where lights shined down on two podiums that faced the bench of the High Council. There, sat Carmichael. Just before him, on a slightly lower plane, waiting, stood four agents of the Galactic Division of Investigations.