Ghosts of Tomorrow Read online

Desperate, Miles came up with a plan he felt was rather shoddy, but Lokner jumped on it like it was the greatest idea in the world. Lokner2.0 was to receive all the same real world data as Lokner1.0 and live in an identical virtuality. The difference was that nothing Lokner2.0 did had any effect on reality. The entire plan hinged on the copy mimicking the original Scan’s moves. Miles was disgusted with himself for not putting up more of a fight and stopping this farcical silliness. What were the odds the Lokners would make the same choices every day? Surely at some point they’d start diverging. How long could this last?

  Lokner1.0 had shrugged aside Miles’ doubts as if they weren’t worth consideration.

  Guilt gnawed at Miles’ stomach. When he glimpsed his bank balance he decided suffering built character. At the least it would buy his Mom some really nice stuff for Christmas. And maybe he’d pay off Neko’s mortgage. Even though she continually bugged him about growing up, his sister was always broke. Having kids, he guessed, must be expensive.

  He considered Anthony, Neko’s partner. These days, the dude never had time for virtuality games. And he always looked so tired. No matter how Miles looked at it, adulthood seemed like a terrible idea.

  The desk chirped for attention.

  “Yes,” Miles answered.

  “Miles.” It was Lokner2.0. Lokner1.0 was to call Miles by his last name—something he never did—so Miles could tell who he was talking to. “Has there been any progress on the Copy project?”

  Lokner2.0 still thought he existed in the basement of M-Sof’s old redbrick Research and Development building in Redmond. If Lokner2.0 persisted, Miles would have to open yet another dummy company and make yet another increasingly inaccurate copy of Lokner. The thought was too depressing.

  “No Sir. The latest research—”

  “Fine, but I’m a copy,” snapped Lokner2.0.

  Miles’ heart leaped into his throat and did its best to choke him. Oh crap. Lokner knew. How could he have found out? How the hell could he explain this? Damn it! I knew this would end badly.

  “What?” asked Miles, stalling while his brain tried to change gears.

  “What?” Lokner mimicked. “They copied my brain. Why is copying holographic data any different?”

  Weird. Did Lokner just mock him? He’d never done that before. “That’s true, but that original scanning process turned your brain to finely sifted pudding.” Mmm. Pudding. Chocolate.

  “Don’t be silly. Copying digitized data is completely different.”

  “Well, yes,” Miles agreed reluctantly. “But in any copy process of this magnitude there will be considerable degradation. I doubt we’ll achieve a viable Scan.” Oh please don’t push this.

  “Shit,” huffed Lokner2.0, sounding disappointed. “Should we dump money into researching the process?”

  Did he just swear? Miles blinked. And did he just ask my opinion? Neither of these things ever happened before. “It’s not a popular field right now. People are already freaked about the whole Scan concept.”

  “Really?” Lokner2.0 didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll think about it.” Lokner2.0 killed the connection.

  Miles backed away from his desk and spun the SmartChair in a lazy circle. Ignorance, he decided, was bliss. No, that sounded mathematically inaccurate. Ignorance was probably bliss. No. Might be bliss? Was hopefully bliss? Whatever ignorance was, Miles decided bliss was the important part of the equation.

  He glanced about his well-appointed office, enjoying the shelves of computer paraphernalia he brought here instead of leaving it in boxes in his new condo. Some of it dated back to the turn of the century. He leaned back in the SmartChair. It massaged his lumbar region and he luxuriated in the comfort.

  This is the life.

  Or it would be if not for the gnawing guilt he felt at lying to Lokner2.0.

  The desk chirped again, and Miles answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Pert, how’s it going with the other me?” Lokner1.0.

  “It’s pronounced Peert.” Miles wasn’t sure if Lokner couldn’t remember his last name or if he was being intentionally obtuse. He’d be nervous this apparent inability to remember might be a sign of the unpredictability of the whole Scanning process, except Lokner had never pronounced it correctly.

  “What’s the word with my brother? Everything running smoothly?”

  Brother? Smoothly? Was a childish, opinion-asking Lokner running smoothly? Did he want to get into this with Lokner1.0? Heck no! Best be vague. “So far he seems to be mirroring your market moves and investments.”

  “Of course. He’s a genius.”

  Lokner cut the connection and Miles glared at the desk. The lumbar massage no longer felt quite so relaxing and ignorance or no, bliss seemed a little further away. Lokner2.0 didn’t sound right at all. That wasn’t the Lokner he knew. And there was something different about 1.0. The man had always been abrupt and to the point, but this was ridiculous.

  A worm of doubt gnawed at Miles’ stomach.

  Don’t forget the guilt. Now he’d lied (well, kind of) to both Lokners.

  Fine. There might be two worms gnawing away in there.

  But how guilty was he? He’d made all of this possible, no denying that. Without his help the biological Lokner might not have achieved any of this before his death.

  He’d hacked a government scanning facility’s data systems to hide all evidence Mister Lokner had been scanned there. And then there were the stock exchange systems he’d hacked to get Lokner’s marketing data together. That definitely wasn’t legal.

  Not legal? A minor understatement.

  Ah but the rush! He never got to do any decent hacking any more. Miles canceled the lumbar massage. What have I done?

  No more than he’d been told to do.

  It didn’t make him feel any better.

  Miles stabbed the intercom connecting him to his secretary.

  “Miss Cho. If anyone calls, tell them I’m out.”

  He hung up before she answered. Someday maybe he'd have to speak to her, do more than grunt as he hurried past.

  With any luck, some cataclysmic event would end the world first.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Friday, August 3rd, 2046

  Two ancient LAV-25s—once US Army APCs—left Dallas on Highway 114 heading towards Wichita Falls. These two old beasts had been around since there was a US Army for them to be part of. Each had an M242 Bushmaster 25mm chaingun mounted in the main turret. This bad boy fired 200 rounds per minute and with 420 rounds stored on board could fire non-stop for over two minutes. There was also a pair of M240 machine guns—firing 7.62x51mm rounds—on each vehicle. One was mounted alongside the M242 and the other was mounted on the turret roof. Griffin and Nadia sat in the second LAV with a seven member NATU Special Response Team. There were nine more NATU SRT in the first LAV.

  Griffin was very aware of Nadia sitting next to him, the warmth of her body noticeable even above the ambient temperature. Her knee touched his, rubbing with each jostle passed along by the LAV-25’s dispirited suspension. It was not at all unpleasant, but he felt a slight discomfort in the silence. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words since their arrival at Dallas Airport. He remembered his words clearly, they dumped her on me with no warning. Maybe a little blunt and lacking tact, but it still true. How could she take offense?

  Griffin stole a quick peek. Should he apologize? The Special Response Team crammed into the LV-25 with them made him self-conscious and he decided to wait.

  He leaned toward the small portal that had been left open to let air in, hoping to feel a breeze on his face. He got nothing but the taste of road dust and exhaust. God damn desert. As his uncle always used to say, I’m so dry I could fart dust. Except of course he was soaked with sweat.

  This was cattle ranch territory and the results of the on-going water wars littered the arid landscape. The rusting hulks of abandoned Patton and Leopard 2 main battle tanks commingled with the remnants of machine-gun-mounted Chevrolet pick-up trucks and the s
cattered skeletal remains of beef cows. Strange how the burnt-out shell of a tank could look forlorn. Here and there a lone bull observed the passing convoy with bovine intensity. Griffin watched out the portal as a murder of carrion crows circled in the distance, intent on whatever lay dying beneath them.

  A lonely harmonica solo would be perfect here.

  Thinking back to Dallas, Griffin was amazed by the number of people who were out on the streets without filter-masks. Either the air wasn’t as bad here or Texans were as crazy as everyone said.

  He remembered the smell of bodies stacked in a sun-warmed barn, the feel of flies in his hair.

  ***

  Nadia watched Griffin. Though she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, she saw by the twitching of his eyes his thoughts jumped chaotically. He dripped sweat and looked more uncomfortable than anyone else in the LAV. His fingers drummed with nervous tension.

  He’s scared, she realized with a start. Why wasn’t she?

  She wanted to apologize for over-reacting back at the airport. She’d been tired and a little hung-over. This didn’t change her anger with his typical male-centric interpretation of events. Somehow she’d been dumped on him, making his life difficult. He was ignorant that she’d been working this story for months and that he was the recent addition, souring the smooth flow of her plans and her career. Sure, he was kind of cute and easy to talk to, a rarity in the old-boys club that was the NATU military. She took in the faces of the Strike Team. The silence hammered home how nervous everyone was. Still an hour from their target, she figured people should be talking.

  The SRT, for their part, seemed confused by the uncomfortable silence and tension between herself and Agent Dickinson. They exchanged glances Nadia read as, what kind of asshole sent a couple—as she suspected the Strike Team believed them to be—into a firefight?

  Time to be the bigger man, she decided with some humor.

  Nadia nudged Griffin’s knee with hers. “Hey. Sorry I got angry. I’ve worked this story for months. To me, you’re the newcomer. You got dumped on me.”

  “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

  She jabbed him in the side with an elbow. “Just explaining. Don’t be an ass.”

  “Sorry. Apology accepted.” He glanced about the cramped interior, watching the SRT pretend not to listen. “I’m sorry I was so blunt.” He opened his mouth, as if to say more, and then closed it.

  “Your apology was worse than mine.”

  “Fair enough,” said Griffin and she realized he wasn’t so much looking her in the eyes as staring at her eyes. A strange distinction.

  With a mischievous smile, Nadia winked and he turned away, blushing. Okay, that was cute.

  The ensuing silence felt somehow more comfortable than the previous silence.

  ***

  Abdul stood balanced in the swaying armored cargo box of the two-ton truck following the LAV-25s. Balance wasn’t a choice, it was something his body did. There were hundreds of new autonomic functions he had no control over, and no matter how much They had tried to make them seem natural, they weren’t. Perfect balance wasn’t a blessing, it was one more thin slice of humanity peeled away. One more theft.

  These crèches always had armed guards and, according to his training, it wasn’t unusual to see the odd rocket launcher. No way this wouldn’t get messy, yet Abdul felt none of the fear and adrenalin he remembered from his biological days. Though he’d been told the computer simulated and modeled most of the same chemical and hormonal reactions, it seemed the doctors chose to leave a few out. He felt nothing. He neither dreaded nor looked forward to the coming raid. On the high side he wasn’t bored either. At least not right now.

  Abdul, tied in to NATUnet, accessed an online map and checked their location. They had an hour before they hit the crèche. He could have read or spent the time lost in a virtuality, but instead decided to stand and think. He always made the same choice. There weren’t many left.

  Death. Abdul thought about it a lot. He’d seen some and even done it once. He remembered something his Dad said: A man does not die of love or his liver or even old age; he dies of being a man. No way Dad came up with that on his own. Abdul did a quick search and found it was a Miguel de Unamuno quote dating back over one hundred and fifty years. Typical. Most of Dad’s wisdom was canned.

  But canned wisdom was better than none.

  Still, it had him thinking. Was being blown to burger by a jumping spider mine a manly death? It seemed like it should be. Of course the waters were somewhat muddied by the fact that here he stood, swaying in the back of a two-ton truck, thinking about death instead of off somewhere actually being dead.

  How do you die of being a man? Pointless self-sacrifice? Dad always went on about courage and doing the right thing no matter the cost. Dad was a man in a way I will never get to be. Another theft.

  Abdul wasn’t afraid to die again but couldn’t deny he didn’t want to. Was this something being simulated and modeled by his computer host or a real will to live? Sad that he couldn’t tell the difference. Come to think of it, calling what he felt a will to live gave the feeling a little too much credit.

  Ennui. That was a French word, wasn’t it? Fantastique.

  What was will anyway? Did he have free will, or did he follow the programming of a modeled brain? If it wasn’t really a brain, were his thoughts really thoughts? Was this modeled brain any less free or real than his biological brain? Did it matter? If he couldn’t tell the difference did that mean no difference existed?

  But I can tell the difference. Being a Scan was nothing like being human. He was not the Abdul he remembered.

  Today he felt a little like all three of Dorothy’s companions rolled into one. No heart, no brains, and nothing but modeled courage which might not even be his own. What was courage if you were near immortal? Sure, he could be killed if enough firepower was turned against him, but he wouldn’t die of old age. And if his combat chassis was anything less than totally destroyed, he’d probably survive to be placed in another machine.

  He didn’t fear death. He’d already done it. I think we're supposed to fear death. I don't fear anything. All his old anxieties were dead, slain by a Jumping Spider mine. Were his modeled thoughts incapable of it, or had those who programmed his simulated emotions failed in some way? Had it been intentional? Did it matter?

  If he felt no fear, could he have courage?

  The answer was simple: No.

  Yet another theft.

  Abdul died his first death at seventeen. They stole my chance to die of being a man. They took his chance of ever being a man.

  He added it to the list.

  ***

  What did the wink and smile mean?

  Griffin jumped when Nadia rested her hand on his.

  “I grew up in the Mattapan housing projects in South Boston,” she said.

  Was she opening up or setting him up? “What was that like?”

  “In one evening the police killed nine people in my building. They said it was part of a meth-lab bust. Some of those kids weren’t more than five or six years old. I can’t help but think they weren’t working a drug lab.” She bit her bottom lip, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to finish what she started. “I thought that if someone watched those in power they’d be less likely, less able, to abuse that power.”

  “You’re here to watch me, make sure I don’t abuse my power?” He laughed at the thought. He wasn’t even sure how much power he had.

  “No. Is the idea of making change from within childish?”

  “I don’t know. I think everyone can make a difference.” I didn't. I failed.

  Nadia snorted. “They lure in the hopeful and naive so they can channel our energy and drive to their own ends.”

  “That sounds cynical.” After the utter failure of his first crèche bust, Griffin had lost all chance at hopeful naiveté. He thought about the stifling dark of the barn and swarms of flies and his skin crawled. He could still taste it.
/>   “Cynical and reasonable,” Nadia said. “Our greatest failing is underestimating the conniving bastard beside us.”

  Griffin, sitting beside her, let this slide.

  She continued. “We’re lulled by their foolish mistakes and soap-opera affairs with high-priced escorts.”

  “If they look stupid enough we won’t believe them capable of carrying out a truly diabolical conspiracy?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hmm. Not sure I’m buying this.” Truth was this rang a little too close to his own conspiracy theories.

  “That’s because it’s all bullshit and you’re too smart.”

  “If I was so damned smart I wouldn’t be here.” The SRT trooper sitting across from him looked hurt. “Present company excepted,” he amended. He leaned in so close he could smell Nadia’s sweat and shampoo, woman and a hint of something reminding him of honey. It was a distracting scent, raw and natural. “At least you're trying to make a difference,” he whispered. Whereas I tried and failed. Every time he closed his eyes he saw swarming flies, pale limbs and empty faces, stacked bodies, and long mass graves.

  Nadia didn’t lean away as she looked into his eyes. Damn, her eyes are dark.

  “That’s it," she said. "I didn’t try. I did what I needed to do to get somewhere better.” She leaned back, eyes hooded. “I’m as self-centered and self-serving as the next girl, don’t think otherwise. Not for an instant.”

  Surprised, Griffin uttered a short bark of laughter. “Ah, that’s where this is going. The old stay clear of me, I’m damaged goods gambit. I suppose we all need our walls.”

  “It’s not—”

  “It’s all right. I’m not that dangerous.” He sat back and did his best to look comfortable.

  Nadia stared, eyes narrowed. “You self-centered little shit.” She shook her head and turned away. He couldn’t read her expression. Annoyed? Amused? A bit of both? Was there a word for that?

  Might have touched a nerve there. Not for the first time Griffin regretted opening his mouth to spew out the first thought there.