
Virtually Deserted

By I.M. Savage
Copyright © 2017, author

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, without written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

Substantially reworked version of author's previously published title _The Stratosphere: The Birth of Nostradamus_. All copyright in the previous work is owned by the author.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover adapted from artwork by Tithi Luadthong, licensed by Shutterstock.

Proofread by Owl Editing

Published 2017

29-1-17Z
Dedicated to EC one and two and of course Harriett and Khrystyne.
Contents

Chapter 1 – Wilde Rises

Chapter 2 – Desolation

Chapter 3 – Preparations

Chapter 4 – Harvard

Chapter 5 – An Old Man's Dream

Chapter 6 – Sing Club

Chapter 7 – The Spy

Chapter 8 – The Purchaser

Chapter 9 – Skyscraper

Chapter 10 – The Governor

Chapter 11 – Sentient Risk

Chapter 12 – The Road to Waltham

Chapter 13 – Starvation

Chapter 14 – Bandits

Chapter 15 – Poisoned

Chapter 16 – Rescue

Chapter 17 – The Return

Chapter 18 – A White Flag

Chapter 19 – Hallucination

Chapter 20 – The Coup

Chapter 21 – Three Possibilities

Chapter 22 – Prison Break

Chapter 23 – Finding an Edge

Chapter 24 – Public Execution

Chapter 25 – Reinforcements

Chapter 26 – Untapped Power

Chapter 27 – Table Talk

Chapter 28 – Surgical Defense

Chapter 29 – River Crossing

Chapter 30 – Frozen

Chapter 31 – Ghost Town

Chapter 32 – Fire

Chapter 33 – Slaughter

Chapter 34 – Allston Celebrates

Chapter 35 – Chocolate

Chapter 36 – Awakening

Chapter 37 – Dead Tank

Chapter 38 – Khaki Fields

Chapter 39 – Gunfight

Chapter 40 – Know Your Enemy

Chapter 41 – Puzzle

Chapter 42 – Eastern Lights

Chapter 43 – Predator

Chapter 44 – Escape from New York

Chapter 45 – Chopper Attack

Chapter 46 – Escape from Allston

Chapter 47 – Injection

Chapter 48 – Radiation Signs

Chapter 49 – The Birth of Nostradamus

Chapter 50 – Empathy Bomb

Chapter 51 – Daisy

Dear Reader,

Appendix – Electronic copy of CIA documents

Acknowledgements

# Chapter 1 – Wilde Rises

**A** **pril 1, 2027, 8:20 a.m. – PedCom headquarters, Queens, New York**

Katharine Wilde stood from her chair, leaned over the boardroom table, and slammed down her fist. "Enough!"

A dozen middle-aged men surrounded her, separated by six yards of polished mahogany. Reactions to Katharine's outburst differed. Some gazed at their paperwork, pretending to thumb through notes and briefs, while others' eyes darted as they surveyed their suited comrades with uncertainty. A few mumbled.

Only one man showed respect. He nodded to her. She briefly caught his eye, and looked away. "We're going in circles. The board elected me to drive change."

"It wasn't unanimous," grumbled a stocky old man.

"Should we vote again?" Katharine said.

Like boxers in the tense moments before the bell, they stared each other down. Ready for the fight, Katharine stood in one corner.

Right or wrong, she believed power rested on collective perception. Image mattered. The previous evening, the same as thousands before, she rehearsed her body language in the mirror. With precision achieved through relentless repetition, she developed an arsenal of decisive but undramatic movements. She'd then practice her elocution, with a deeper but natural voice. Every action designed to shift attention from her shape to her mind. At twenty-six years old, Katharine had to fight for respect. So each night she trained for battle.

Subtle contradictions defined her. She cultivated this. Her thin muscular frame implied energy. Yet, her suit's straight lines dislodged scrutiny from curves that flowed beneath the fabric like firm, ripe fruit. An emerald glint in her outfit's herringbone weave hinted style, without being conspicuous. Soft curls of blonde hair straightened and dyed into a jet-black bob. A sharp fringe framed a sharp mind. She projected distinction that evaded description. A temporary distraction, lodged in the subconscious, registered as faint difference. People remembered her, though they didn't know why.

In the opposite corner, a stocky man in his late fifties perched in his black leather chair. He sported a thick mop of gray hair raked back in slick waves. Creases lined his broad face, worn like business battle medals. An oversized ring hugged his index finger, the gold rubbed thin from years of clinking against whiskey-filled glasses.

He spoke with the air of arrogance born from decades of unchallenged authority. "No. But that doesn't give you free rein. You report to the board. Not the opposite. Five board members don't want you. Six think you're the best worst choice. Only one gives you their full support. We all know why." The man turned and glared at the person seated at the table's end, Professor Igan.

Katharine sat, attention fixed on the stocky man. "I'm here now. Adjust." Her expression relaxed. "Look, this discussion is pointless. PedCom is close to bankruptcy. If we don't accept responsibility, we might as well go home."

After hesitation, the men conceded. The stocky man yielded last.

"Forget blame. I don't care who's responsible. But to succeed, we must understand our failure's root cause. This requires we park our egos. If we can't, we're finished." Katharine's voice quietened.

A previously silent old man reacted. He scowled at the Marketing Director. "Well if salaries reflected competency—"

Katharine interrupted, "Stop. We can't do this..."

Silence followed. The boardroom table stretched ahead like a great ocean that separated her from her team. Their complaints rose in waves, the sting of cold salt spray of a violent sea. She felt them drift away. They bobbed and bounced in their own worlds. Their defensiveness widened the distance, forcing them over water dark and deep. It seemed hopeless. The situation threatened to drown her.

After a painful silence, a hawkish old man threw her a life ring. "The Stratosphere is boring."

Everyone turned to the man. Brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. Businessmen aren't immune to ignoring inconvenient truths. In fact, many would win a gold medal in self-denial. No one wishes to hear their life's efforts amounted to rubbish.

The hawkish man delivered a four-word message that summed their failure's essence. A few answered with grunts. Others snorted or waved their hands, as if dismissing a fool.

"It's true," Professor Igan responded. "I've more ego invested in this product than everyone. I created the Stratosphere and the StratSuits. It was my dream, not yours. If I can admit failure, so can you. The Stratosphere is boring. That's the problem we must address."

A younger old-man crossed his arms. "Nonsense. When users wear the StratSuit, the simulation smells, tastes, looks, and behaves so realistically, it's indistinguishable from reality. And unlike reality, they're completely free. How can this be boring?"

Katharine said, "That's precisely the problem."

"What? The StratSuit?" he mocked.

The Marketing Director snorted in agreement. "Yes, our quandary is we've created a perfect wearable electronic fabric that seamlessly integrates users with an immersive digital virtual reality system."

"No," Katharine said, "The issue isn't the suit. It's the Stratosphere itself. The Strat's geography is too sterile. The streets are spotless, the buildings all immaculate palaces, the waters crystal clear. People wonder at the technological marvel. But wonderment soon fades. Only light and shade can keep their interest. The Strat is all sun, no darkness. Users find it pointless after the novelty wears off."

"What do you suggest? Make the digital streets dirty?"

She ignored the snide comment. "The Strat's economic viability requires two changes. We must create artificial scarcity and eliminate anonymity."

The last words provoked strong reactions. Everyone spoke together. She clenched her jaw, looked down, and waited. Her eyes shot up first, followed by her head. She yelled, "One at a time."

"You can't be serious. Erase anonymity? No one would use the Strat without privacy."

"Yes, destroy anonymity. Users' physical appearance will determine their digital one. When they log onto the Strat, I want their virtual spawn point to mirror their plug in location. The Strat must contain no form of social media. Demolish anything people can hide behind. No message boards, texts, blogs, Facebook, Twitter... Nothing."

"You're crazy. For six months, we've worked fourteen hours a day on the Facebook contract. Should we throw this away?" The General Counsel shook his head and turned bright red. "Let me do my job. By next year we'll have a virtual Facebook presence in the Strat."

"Social media will never deliver us a dime in profit," Katharine said.

The man's pitch rose as he argued. "You'd discard the social media business model, a billion dollar juggernaut? And you plan to replace it with what?"

Reminding herself to remain calm, she took in a subtle breath. "It's like we invented a teleportation system, and we're discussing where to attach the wheels. Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, it's all two-dimensional. We've created a five-dimensional space. Three physical dimensions, a time dimension, and a creative dimension."

"Creative dimension? What the hell is a creative dimension? You're joking?"

The old men mocked her with laughter.

Her face flushed. "Am I laughing? Virtual reality isn't bound by physics. Time, space, imagination, all those things have suddenly grown. We must expand our mind to take advantage of this opportunity. I'm not here to rival social media. That'd be folly. I aim to replace the old world in its entirety. Then social media can compete with us and fail."

"Okay then. I'll humor you. What is your big plan?" the stocky man asked.

Katharine understood she had one shot to convince them. "Pretend you were fourteen again. You and your friends wandered into a deserted industrial estate filled with abandoned warehouses. Your buddies throw rocks at the windows. They encourage you to join. At first, you're frightened. You know it's wrong. But that's what makes it so fun. The sound of shattered skylights is irresistible. Imagine there are hectares of empty buildings. How long would you hurl stones? An hour, a week, a month? Eventually, even the most die-hard vandal will lose interest. Without enforcement, breaking rules becomes pointless."

The men didn't speak. A glint of new possibilities reflected in their eyes. Their minds reached beyond self-preservation, dislodged by a question that appealed to their intelligence.

She searched their faces, willing them closer. "Removing anonymity creates consequence, consequence creates purpose, and purpose will transform users' experience into something meaningful."

"That all sounds wonderful in theory. But what does it mean practically?"

Her tone became deeper, firmer. "Rules and form are critical. We need two worlds in the Stratosphere. The first world replicates the real world brick-for-brick, house-for-house, road-for-road, city-for-city. The—"

"Yes, you describe the current Strat, albeit free of cleaners."

Everyone laughed except Professor Igan.

"Let me finish." Katharine barked. She stared until they hushed. "The second world orbits the first world. In this world, people express themselves however they want, fulfill any desire. They can consume counseling, games, movies—"

"Consumers already have this, in reality. Hell, every survey and focus group returns the same result. They consider the Strat an expensive poor substitute for reality."

"Yes!" Katharine said, "if you nail your imagination to yesterday. What do people crave? Reality? No! They want fame and fortune. Don't sit clients in virtual cinemas. Transform them into film stars."

"We've tried already. The complexity outstrips our programmers' capabilities. Five minutes into the movie and the script's probability parameters spiral into infinity. We can make people passengers in electronic acting. That's all."

Frustrated, her face reddened. "We can do much better. In the 1970s, quiz show producers realized they didn't require complex questions or even smart contestants. They just needed big prizes. Similarly, intricate screenplays are unnecessary. We only need to create virtual characters that cater to people's psychological needs."

"Humans can't empathize with computers."

Irritated, Katharine raised her voice again. "Rubbish! Ever heard of ELIZA?"

"Of course," the old man said and slapped the table. Blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Then you should understand it takes little to connect emotionally with computers. Individuals compete, they judge, they half-listen. A StratBot won't jockey for consumers' ego needs. They'll give all and expect nothing. Mark my words, people will fall in love with their StratBots."

"Are you proposing to create SexBots?" the hawkish man asked.

"Whatever it takes to get you laid," said Katharine, her voice deadpan.

The ice cracked. Almost everyone chuckled.

The hawkish old man added, "Count me in!"

"Yeah, your wife has been too busy with me to keep you happy!" the stocky man replied. The two were good friends. Both laughed until they coughed.

With the mood lightened, progress became possible. "We must widen our view. Then you'll see the opportunities are limitless." She made eye contact with the stocky man. "Take tertiary education, for example. Instead of creating clunky online courses, we build virtual universities where students learn from a digital Einstein, Plato, Martin Luther King, Freud... anyone we imagine. Why would pupils crowd into sweaty lecture halls, or log onto lonely web seminars, when StratBots can meet all their learning and emotional needs?"

An old man who'd teetered silently on sleep's edge for hours, sprang to life as if startled. "StratBots?" He wiped dribble from his mouth's corner.

"Virtual characters, digital personalities; all individually tailored to every participant's psychology," she replied without a hint of frustration.

The stocky man snorted at the sleepy man, and the remainder stopped flicking through their papers and phones, and leaned forward. Katharine paused.

"Go on. We're listening," the stocky man said.

"We need the right structure to generate profits. Sales require scarcity. Digital tourism can only deliver income if we control movement and real estate." She gave the men a chance to respond.

The stocky man held her gaze. His face relaxed. He stopped twisting his ring. "Keep going."

"Like I said, two worlds are essential. One replicates the real world exactly. It provides an emotional bridge between reality and fantasy. We'll give Google exclusive rights to build and draw income from this world—"

"But that's potentially billions in advertising revenue," said the Marketing Director.

"Ideas and intellectual property are lint in our pockets. We have zero leverage. Let them establish their perfect virtual Google Earth. The second virtual world is the gold mine."

"What's in this second world? Not that it matters. We don't have the money to build this either."

"I agree," Katharine said. "So we create the framework, virtual real estate and StratBots. We construct the building-blocks, and businesses then utilize them to populate the Stratosphere. They can brand and use the StratBots however they wish. Let them become digital pimps for all I care." She winked at the hawkish man, and he laughed.

Katharine continued. "Manufacturing shortage is the key. For example, we limit participants' speeds to fifty miles per hour, with shuttles in the second world that travel at six thousand miles per hour. If we allow people to go wherever they want instantaneously, they'll soon become bored. The act of choosing a destination will create scarcity. In doing so, it'll turn a trip into an expedition. It'll also provide additional profits."

Everyone laughed. Some rapped their knuckles on the table and shouted, "Hear, hear." The stocky man clapped his hands.

She gave a subtle appreciative nod. "We'll draw consumers into the Strat by delivering experiences not even limited by their own imagination."

The board cheered Katharine again. It appeared she might deliver them from financial ruin.

"What should we call this second world in the Strat?"

"Why, Utopia, of course," Katharine said.

This elicited more approval.

The men listened as she outlined her vision for transforming the Stratosphere. By the meeting's end, the afternoon sun warmed the room.

One by one, they shook her hand, offered advice and congratulations, and departed. Eventually the space fell silent, leaving her alone to reflect on the day's success. After twelve hours negotiating and fighting, more than anything, she wanted to look outside.

So she pulled back the blinds. Natural light flooded the boardroom. Unlike modern towers, the old ten-story stone building had sliding windows. The heavy wooden frame resisted, squeaked complaints, but rose. A breeze entered, the faint smell of stale exhaust and fermented rubbish. Still an improvement on air-conditioning.

She peered out the window to the bustling city. Below, she watched a young boy in a florescent red top buy a hotdog from the street vendor. He bit into one and clutched the second dog awkwardly. Without looking, he dashed into the traffic. Horns blared, and he retreated to the sidewalk.

Yellow taxis lurched along the boulevard, where they wove and honked. The boy ran to the crossing and raced across the road as the lights changed, past shoppers and office workers. He vanished behind shop awnings on the road's opposite side. A minute later, he reappeared outside a vacant block, cleared for a new high-rise. He pushed through a gap in the chain fence, cut a diagonal path over the empty building site, and exited at the far end. There he crossed another street, to a bright park, where a woman greeted him with a big hug. She handed him a soccer ball, and he gave her the hotdog. They turned for the entrance. Shortly after, they disappeared under a giant oak tree's lush canopy. A million wavy-edged green leaves swayed in the light breeze, miniature swells on a larger sea.

Katharine smiled and looked up. A jet's vapor trail traced a white line across a wide blue sky. The city promised inexplicable excitement. An opportunity whispered just below hearing's threshold. 

# Chapter 2 – Desolation

Thirty years later, April 1, 2057 – PedCom headquarters, Queens, New York

Katharine stared out the shattered window. Putrid rubbish ran the street's length, piled high on the sidewalk in mounds. An oily slick leached through the heaps and out their base, into pools that filled the pavement's cracks and hollows. The overflow slid in thick rivulets down the curb, joining the sludge in the gutter.

From the rotten piles, lighter objects fluttered, barely held in place. They moved as if waving goodbye, rustling, until a stronger gust freed them. Random choices, an empty plastic bottle crushed and brown, threadbare fabric, nylon netting, and other useless detritus. The wind swept the junk, flapping and spinning across the street, until it disappeared in the shadows beneath shop canopies that'd collapsed to the ground, their underbellies upturned, like industrial corpses. Scaled rust covered by intermittent patches of starved grass.

Once upon a time, awnings hid the shops from Katharine's view. Now she had a clear line of sight to the stores' gutted bowels. Bright colors long faded to gray.

Wilted weeds fought to survive where glass panes previously framed high fashion, held at arm's length from shoppers like Christmas Eve to a child. Today a few broken shelves were scattered on the floors. Nothing else.

Beyond the shops, she saw the park. A skeletonized oak tree towered over the entrance. Silvered trunks reached out, lifeless, covering a wrought iron gate in mottled shadows. The park's leaning fence disappeared along with the remaining boundary, consumed by wild shrubs and squat trees, their brown leaves drooping under sticky dust.

Above, a dirty gray sky dissolved into heavy smog. Only the hazy silhouettes of industrial printers' smoke stacks indicated the horizon's location.

The old mahogany boardroom table stood behind her, dark and decayed. The floor crunched underfoot as she returned. She ran her finger over the soft timber. It turned black with grime. She flicked her thumb against her index digit, trying to dislodge the dirt. It didn't budge. So she removed a handkerchief from her bag and wiped it clean.

At the table's head lay her old chair, covered with animal droppings. She dragged it out and knocked the worst filth away with her cloth. After removing a fresh rag, she laid it on the seat and slumped into its discomforting softness. It squelched.

She glanced across the room to her Security Team Leader standing against the dark wall.

"Grant, you're the only person I can trust." From the shadows, she gleaned the hint of a solemn smile. "Thanks for bringing me here. I understand the danger."

"That's okay."

"The past is history. But I had to return, one last time."

He nodded.

After a minute's silence she said, "Before the world turned to shit, before I met you, this was my throne." She tapped the armrests. "Three years after taking power, the StratMovies and StratGames made me the world's wealthiest woman. But somehow I needed more."

The weight of her words bowed her head, shifting her gaze to the table. For the first time she noticed the peeling veneer and realized the top wasn't solid mahogany. When she lifted its edge, the thin layer parted company with the substrate, crackling as it did. In the curled corner where dirt couldn't settle underneath, beneath the hazy brown that almost hid the timber's beauty, like a grainy black-and-white photo of a fire, lay cheap wide-grained ply. A small surprised humph escaped her lips.

Still focused on the table she said, "It wasn't greed, just a genuine desire to contribute. The StratUniversity should've been our gift to society." She laughed weakly. "We obliterated the competition. They gave them crusty old lecturers, has-beens, marking time to retirement. We gave them direct one-on-one contact with the finest minds in history." Slowly she turned to Grant. "Guess what most students wanted?"

He shrugged.

"They weren't interested in judging Galileo's trials, discovering radiation with Curie, participating in the Wright brothers' first flight, or joining the Apollo crew. Instead they obsessed about their virtual FriendBots. We tailored each virtual friend to students' psychological needs. We needn't have bothered. They just wanted someone inferior they could show up. Someone dependent on them."

"Maybe they needed someone to need them."

"Perhaps... I can't help feeling I brought this on myself."

"Second guesses are useless. It's outside your control."

"Is it?" Her shoulders dropped, and she tapped the table.

"The industrial 3D printers did most of the damage," Grant said.

"Possibly. The visible devastation..." Katharine walked to the window. Small hexagonal glass fragments lay scattered across the sill. Flaked paint covered its frame, curled and yellowed by the sun, lifted in patches, exposing timber honeycombed by rot. The decay distracted her while she spoke to Grant. "The professor is holding a conference at Harvard. It's so odd. It must be at least two decades since anyone has held one. He asked me to attend, and our technicians, or scientists, as he generously calls them." A short silence followed as she flicked thumbnail-sized debris onto the empty street. "We'll need quite a few choppers. Do you think you could round up a dozen? A jet would be easier..."

"Sorry, ma'am, there are no serviceable jets."

"I know..."

"I can acquire the helicopters. Fuel won't be easy. It'll cost a few favors," he said.

When she turned towards Grant the room appeared black, her pupils narrowed by natural light. The darkness didn't dissolve. The isolation unnerved her, so she returned to the table. "Do it. Have you heard any gossip on what he plans to talk about?"

"Nothing reliable."

"How about unreliable?"

"Most are saying it's the bio-quantum computers."

The words echoed. "Impossible..." Caught in thought, she ran her hands through her hair. The once vibrant bob, now long, grayed, and curled. "Stubborn old bugger. He's been hiding with Brenna forever, presumably working on the computers. Matching him with her was one of my better decisions." A fragile smile. "She's kept him happy."

"Yes."

For a short while, she soaked in Grant's validation. The moment's joy disappeared under the pressure of things requiring attention. "Although it pains me, I must send Trevor on a mission."

"Should I brief him?"

"No. This is my responsibility. He makes me sick. But no one else can complete this assignment. Can you organize a meeting? I'll catch him at Harvard, when I attend this silly conference."

"Sure."

Silence followed, drawing her deeper into introspection. She realized she procrastinated, a luxury time no longer permitted. A lump formed in her throat, the words caught as if she'd swallowed a bone. The discomfort made her drop her head. "Did you get those files on the professor?"

"Yes." He dug into his briefcase and removed a small manila file, extending it to her. "There wasn't much."

The statement hung in the air, like the folder. Reluctantly, she reached out and took it. Transaction completed, she examined the floor vacantly. "You can go, Grant. I need to be alone."

With a nod, he left. Footsteps echoed, growing distant with each beat. In a dark corner, a drip became audible, plinking into a puddle with a clock's monotony. Enveloped in shadows, she contemplated her thirty-year anniversary as CEO of the world's most powerful company. Regrets, vanquished opponents, and lost opportunities. As her eyes drifted over the room's contents, a conclusion greeted her like a deathbed epiphany, final and bleached of ego's claims.

So this is my legacy.

Dappled sunshine streamed in from the window. She pulled her chair from the darkness. It deflated again as she sat. Manila folder on her lap, the dust-speckled light rained gently down. The dossier was thin, barely more than a few pieces of paper. Her finger traced the edge, paused, and then opened the file.

Inside the cover, she saw Grant's handwritten note: "If you have trouble reading these printouts, you'll find the electronic files stored on server XYT1." She turned to the notes.

Katharine closed the folder. Disappointed, she sighed and slumped forward. She re-examined Grant's handwritten note that asked her to click on the link XYT1, if she couldn't read the printouts.

The documents explained their predicament. But this wasn't news to her. Worse, they implicated her. Although self-replicating manufacturing robots (3D printers) caused the environmental destruction, the dossier also blamed the Stratosphere. Over the years, she'd learned to accept responsibility. Still, she didn't enjoy the reminder.

She meandered back to the old boardroom table, where she rifled through her ever-present pharmaceutical bag. "I have a cure for everything except a bloody headache."

She called Grant on her secure communication device. "Sorry. After you locate fuel, can you please find me a fresh medical supply? A full kit."

"Will do," his voice rasped out the tiny coms unit, sounding tinny, but loud.

She left her bag on the table to return to the chair and her morose mood.

The power she enjoyed in 2057 rested on the residue of days past. Ironically, the past also weakened her. Although Katharine didn't produce industrial 3D printers, she rode the wave of demand they created for new knowledge and therefore shared their fate.

In 2047, after the Printer Killer Virus threatened to sink the whole world into permanent chaos, she 'freed' all the StratBots and handed control to Strat users, minus the ability to impersonate people. She also made all Strat businesses free. Everyone consumed whatever they desired. With capitalism dead, and no capitalists left to care, charging entry fees was pointless. The Strat became an economic phantom, and without so much as a whisper of a socialist revolution, the last standing capitalist, Katharine Wilde, had nationalized the Strat.

# Chapter 3 – Preparations

Meanwhile, at Galveston Island, over 1600 miles away

Brenna sat at her desk poring over technical documentation when the professor buzzed the warehouse doorbell. In front of her, a small universe of perfection rested in wait. The pens all lined in rows, the papers' edges squared, containers organized by size.

Nothing superfluous occupied the space, except for a single photo, enclosed in a simple frame. The picture had faded, but the young man's expression remained clear, caught mid-laugh, as if a close friend just shared a private joke.

For a moment, Brenna didn't react to the buzzer, still deeply engrossed in her work. Gradually, she rose, her eyes glued to the page. Trapped in concentration, she didn't break away until the bell sounded a second time.

She crossed the polished concrete floor, past immaculately maintained workbenches. The tables formed an open grid pattern inside a spacious warehouse. Each served a different function. Circuit boards and small electrical components such as servos covered the first workbench she passed. To her right, on another bench, metalworking tools lay neatly against a shadow board.

Two yards ahead, a large low table sat hidden under schematics. Each plan rolled tightly to a precise diameter, arranged side-by-side like tidy toy soldiers. One blueprint lay flat, its curling corners held down by four weights, placed in symmetrical precision.

The next area contained a holographic workstation. Beyond this, at the warehouse's rear, stood a biological workroom, enclosed by walls, isolated by a decontamination cell and its own air supply.

When she reached the main entrance at the northern corner, she hit a large green button. A hissing sound followed. The outer door opened, and natural light flooded the warehouse.

Between Brenna and the professor, a chamber excluded the external pollution. As the exit shut, fans sucked out the smog while a pipe fed in purified air. Once the contaminants vented, the internal glass barrier slid open.

The professor stepped inside. A warm grin beamed below his grizzled gray stubble. Without hesitation, he leaned in to hug her. But her arms hung limp and heavy. After stepping back, she gave a quick forced smile. "So, everything's ready?"

"Yes."

"Why the conference? I don't understand."

"Well, I haven't given a lecture at Harvard for two decades." The professor laughed.

Like a daughter humoring her father, she smiled briefly. "Very cute." Her serious expression returned. "The risk is excessive. You must explain the conference's necessity."

"I've just stepped inside. Can't we sit first?"

As they walked, she cast quizzical sideways glances at him. At her desk, she pulled out a chair for him, and when he sat, she followed.

"Is there a problem?" A small frown etched across her face.

After some pause, he replied, "No, it's all good."

"And the test results?"

"Everything is fine, Brenna." Silence hung heavy as he turned to the photo on her desk. His head dropped. When he looked up again, his mouth moved silently, as if searching for words. "I worry about you."

With faked surprise, she stiffened and shuffled upright in her chair. "I don't understand."

"The universe doesn't start and finish with our work. You need more."

She squinted as if he spoke an unrecognizable language. "But our work is everything."

"Yes, and no."

"Now I'm confused."

"When everything's done, one way or the other, our lives will be transformed. For years I've been your only friend. You're too young to be alone, and I'm too old to keep you company."

With a rising pitch she asked, "Are you dying?"

"No. Don't be silly."

"Good." Her shoulders loosened.

"But I won't live forever. Everything we achieved is due to your brilliance. But you are more than your work. If this project fails, you may forget that. You must have someone else."

When he finished speaking, her eyes darted, and her face drew long. In his cornea, she saw her confusion reflected as worry. The answer would come, but not from her lips, so she waited.

"I know you don't understand, but you must try. Maybe when we're in Harvard you can visit our research assistants. You can meet them. Yes, that's what you should do."

"But the only person there's Trevor. He's a sociopath."

"You've always got a reason to avoid people."

"But he's mad."

"Everyone is mad. The world is mad. You're scared."

"You don't know him," she snapped.

"Yes, but you don't either. You spend five minutes with someone on the Strat, give them instructions, and then unplug. Life is a stranger to you."

She shot a furious glance into the professor's eyes. When she broke contact he responded, "It's not your fault. It's mine. We needed to keep our distance from everyone for security. But you paid the price."

With her fists held rigid against her knees, she looked a picture of tight posture. Her defenses melted when he leaned forward, reached out, and grasped her hands. When his eyes welled up and glistened, a red hue flushed her cheeks. "As you wish," she said.

"Good. Good. That's good." He squeezed her hands gently and then removed them to lift himself. With his palms pressed into the armrests, he rose, wobbling. She grabbed his arm.

"It's okay. I won't fall." Once standing, his stiff and drooped shoulders slowly rose, and with a chirp in his voice he said, "There must be something delicious we can cook for dinner. Let's eat something sinful!"

Footsteps echoed through the cavernous warehouse as Brenna walked by his side. When they reached the exit, he said, "Please organize security details with the colonel."

"It's already done."

"Go over it again. The colonel leaves on a short mission tomorrow. So you need to see him today. Triple check everything. Security must be perfect."

Brenna nodded. "I will. By the way, you still haven't answered my question."

He smiled and pushed a paper into her hands. As he walked outside, she examined the scrap of a map he'd given her. They were masters of technology, yet, in many ways he was still an old man hoarding fragments of time past.

# Chapter 4 – Harvard

May 15, 2057 – Harvard University, Cambridge, MA

A rat scurried from the ancient lecture hall's darker extremities, distressed by the encroaching crowd. An hour earlier darkness covered the theater. The quiet had lasted thirteen days. When the previous clangs and footfalls disturbed the rodent, it'd welcomed the interruption.

That day had followed a familiar pattern. Once every four weeks it scampered under the plastic lecture seats bolted to the soft rotting timber floor, along the semi-circular front row to the building's opposite side. From there it hugged the skirting boards and climbed the steps to the landing. Here, light streamed through a crack, the door held ajar a few degrees. Beyond, humans did human things. The rat didn't know they were traders. It was only interested in the meager meal scraps that the gatherings rained down.

This day, however, was different. The earlier clamor failed to produce food. So it'd retreated to its hole, hungry. But now the humans moved too close. Panicked, it deserted its home. It raced between legs, up the steps, along the wooden landing towards the exit where, in its bid to escape the unusual animals and their noises, its life ended under Nancy's boot.

Nancy and her gaggle of sidekicks stood outside the least used entrance to the lecture hall. Whenever the crowd moving through the doorway slowed to a trickle, she uttered a sarcastic comment, just as they passed hearing range. Most of her insults were bland, but sometimes she fired a cutting barb that sank into its target, and her friends would respond with sniggering chuckles.

Her appearance mirrored her demeanor. She usually wore black punctuated by a flash of color. Her clothes comprised an assortment of T-shirts in various states of disintegration she designed and created herself. Every so often, a shirt revealed a pleasing composition. However, it was hard to tell if sheer numbers or talent produced the rare jewel. Today's shirt displayed a male fertility symbol fashioned into a skull with the words "Fear the Female Planet" hovering over the death graphic.

On her head sat a twisted mess of auburn hair. Like most others, the rest of her outfit was a mash up of scrounged items. Nevertheless, the tattered black jeans, leather boots, and thick tanned belt, hung together.

Noise and bustle filled the hall, but nothing held her friends' attention. While they attempted to find solace in any distraction, counting the minutes until they logged back onto the Strat, Nancy embraced the moment.

For as long as her memory served, one day marched into the next without contrast. Any difference, even dull change, made the wait worthwhile. Consequently, she intended to listen, to see what the fuss would unveil. Her friends only stayed because the town boss said they must attend the lecture or be on duty.

She looked up from the dead rat and groaned. From across the foyer, she watched Gus hobble towards her. She knew him as they both lived in Allston. As she examined him, she noticed that his annoying smile was absent. In its place, was a frown, framed by sweat.

Gus suffered an undiagnosed degenerative motor neuron disease that already cost him most of his coordination. He walked with the help of a cane; effective, but with fits and starts as he lurched from foot to foot. Even Nancy realized he would've been a striking man, tall, athletic, with clean symmetrical masculine features. The disease robbed him of this, leaving his body hunched and twisted.

He stumbled through the lecture hall entrance. As he pushed by Nancy, he bumped into her. Then he placed his cane on her foot, leaning on it with force. She responded with a high-pitched yelp, followed by an angry outburst repentant with flying spittle, "Watch where you're going. Useless gimp!"

Nancy's friends shrank behind her, attempting to disappear into the shadows. Half a dozen people glared up at her. Embarrassed and flustered but unwilling to retreat, she snorted, "Fuck off back to your own business."

A second later, she ejected Gus's cane off her foot with such force that it launched his hand high in the air. With no support, he stumbled backward. The cane clanked down the steps. His legs crossed awkwardly, and he teetered on the brink of falling.

His collapse would appear inevitable to any observer that cared to notice. They could expect a hard tumble, followed by broken bones. As Gus's knees buckled, a hand shot out from the crowd to save him.

The hand belonged to Brenna, who pulled him back to his feet. He stood, straightened his bent spine slightly, and thanked her. Then he turned to Nancy and apologized. She blushed brightly, and if the floor opened to swallow her, she'd have greeted it like an old friend.

Brenna, dressed in sharp, crisp military fatigues, faced Nancy and stared her down. Nancy faltered, and after five long seconds, muttered an apology that trailed into indecipherable words. For the longest minute, Brenna locked eyes with her. Nancy retreated gradually, until her gaze shifted to the timber floorboards.

"Get his cane. Now," Brenna said, pointing to where it'd fallen. Before Nancy could respond, Brenna spun and strode off, down the steep wooden steps, through the thin aisle, towards the stage at the theater's basin. An intense man followed her, struggling to keep pace.

Upon reaching the bottom, Brenna stopped and turned to Trevor. She scrutinized him disdainfully. Trevor nudged forward, and she stepped back, maintaining her personal space. She pointed at an empty seat on the front row and waved her index finger, motioning him to the chair. When his slow response outstripped her patience, she instructed him to sit, like a master to a dog. After a short defiant bout, he retreated across the crowded wooden floor, towards the brittle black plastic lecture seats. Satisfied, Brenna climbed the stage steps and sat beside the show's star. Relieved to be free from Trevor, she relaxed.

The speaker that attracted such enormous interest turned to Brenna and smiled like a father to a daughter. Only a handful of scientists on the planet understood Professor Igan's brilliance. When they looked at his work, these experts, the cream of the elite, might as well have been children gazing at a plane in flight for the first time—aware of its profound achievement juxtaposed against their own landlocked existence but unable to explain how it flew.

For fifteen years, the professor and Brenna worked relentlessly on their bio-quantum computers, or BQCs as they called them. Their work yielded three functioning BQCs. Individually, the computers were a formidable machine. Together they reached sublime intelligence.

Two things mattered with computers, how much it remembered, and how fast it could process that memory. Silicon computers made programing easy but created processing choke points. No amount of architectural brilliance could resolve this inherent flaw.

Where other computers attempted to force data through tiny bottlenecks, their BQCs accessed wholesale chunks of memory simultaneously, which they processed at an unfathomable speed. Their slowest BQC ran at a staggering one hundred yottaflops, over a million times faster than the human brain.

The last and most powerful BQC operated almost entirely at the quantum level, with its function dedicated to probability. It could, for example, forecast daily fluctuations in the weather for any point on the globe with 99.9 percent accuracy up to two months in advance. Brenna named it 'Nostradamus,' given its predictive powers and purpose.

The public had only heard rumors. Although most scientists were skeptical, the professor's brilliance allowed the possibility of the computer's existence to seduce them.

They all came for the computers. After endless social and technological regression, Professor Igan offered hope that progress existed. Consequently, the audience did something unprecedented. They left their homes to listen to a man speak. Normally they'd meet in the Stratosphere, if at all. In the Stratosphere, they could gather anywhere the organizer desired, whether a beautiful beach or a grand castle. Instead, they sweltered in a decaying hall.

Outside, the heat roasted the theater's dull red bricks. The sun's radiation rained relentlessly, disintegrating the building, atom by atom, until eons from now nothing but brown dust would blow, stretched thin across the shifting continents. Inside, the audience sweated. They fidgeted in their seats, their resilience having already turned to dust. 

# Chapter 5 – An Old Man's Dream

Professor Igan shuffled to the podium, cleared his throat, and tapped the microphone. The mic, a quaint relic of a long-discarded technology, echoed with each knock. Sweat ran down his face. He waited while the racket dimmed, first to a dull background noise with the odd spike, then one voice here, one there.

After the hall fell silent, he spoke. "My father was an academic who saw himself as a teacher. He witnessed many changes during his career. In the 1970s, he used a chalkboard. For those who don't understand, it's a board coated with special black paint on which you wrote with chalk." Behind him, he unveiled a blackboard, onto which he scrawled the word 'CHANGE.'

"During the 1980s whiteboards replaced blackboards, and education took its first steps towards modernization. Many schools stopped using corporal punishment to motivate their students." He cracked a cane across the table, causing the audience seated along the front row to jolt. A guilty smile forced its way to the corner of his mouth.

"Computers became affordable and useful in the 1990s, and the Internet made its first popular appearance. Within a decade, the world changed forever. Information saturated everyone and everything. The meaningless rubbing shoulders with the meaningful.

"By 2010, manufacturing industries began taking three-dimensional printing seriously. Many predicted it'd be disruptive, but didn't rank it highly. They failed to comprehend the big picture. Like Columbus, the printers sailed uncharted waters. They crossed the last divide separating the virtual and physical worlds.

"Once printers created silicon chips, they could self-replicate. The late 2030s unleashed a consumption orgy, driving our planet to the brink. Great industrial printers sucked in natural resources and spewed out poisons and consumer goods. The global capitalist economy, one that requires scarcity to survive, crashed. And, the human race, which needs clean air to breathe, also collapsed.

"By the mid-2040s toxins largely depopulated the planet. Yet the printers kept churning out orphaned commodities. However, an endless supply of useless things failed to deliver utopia. Instead, civil society fragmented and turned inwards.

"The pollution continued unchecked, choking our air, killing nearly everyone. Desperation resurrected the anti-print movement. Hunted like dogs, a small band of fanatics achieved the impossible. They created the incurable Printer Killer Virus, the PKV. No printer survived the virus.

"After the printers stopped, humanity battled over the remaining commodities, the last scraps of print. A two-decade Strat induced coma had bleached humanity's skills and work ethic. Instead of rebuilding society, people took the easiest path. Steal from others. We descended from capitalism into tribal survivalism. Technological progress slowed from a trickle to a complete halt."

After sipping his water the professor continued, "This is a terrible five minute pottered history. But there's a point. Creation and control aren't the same. Parents understand this. Technology has outstripped our biology. Society will continue to rise in toxicity until balance returns."

He turned his notes and then studied the crowd. Like schoolchildren, they fidgeted. It reminded him of the freshmen he'd lectured in this same theater many decades ago. Back then, he worried they didn't listen. But now, disinterest's price had inflated.

The weight of duty leaned on him. He sensed he'd drifted off track, waffled. What he needed to say required people to view the world differently; it demanded their concentration. The right words slipped between his fingers, but he continued regardless. "So how does one reach equilibrium with technology? How can we evolve our biology? For two decades, we've worked to solve this problem."

The audience's attention drifted away from the professor. Instead, they faced each other as they whispered and gesticulated, and shook their heads.

Blood flooded his thin capillaries, and his face flushed. "What if rather than making humanity redundant, technology could reinvent us as a species? Well, it's possible. The nanobots we created are now fully functional, self-replicating, self-learning machines that can assimilate silicon-based information with the human brain."

Whispered voices became louder. A tiny minority leaned forward in their seats as they strained to listen.

His voice rose. "What does this mean in practice?" While he waited for the noise to dim, he scanned the audience, searching for evidence they understood the implications. They failed to calm, and he pressed ahead. "This means your abilities will be limitless. Whatever you desire to become, a rock star, a painter, a great writer, or a surgeon, everything's possible."

The crowd abandoned any remaining polite pretense and broke into a large roar of crossing conversations. Their reaction didn't surprise the professor. He understood most expected to hear about the BQCs. But he needed them to look past their disappointment, to listen to him.

Throughout the hall, the outcry rose in pitch until someone stood and shouted, "I'm already a rock star in the Strat."

The professor's thin voice became forceful. "The Stratosphere?" He smacked the cane prop hard against a plastic table near the lectern, and it snapped. Too angry and old to feel it slice into his palm, the blood dripped down his fingers unnoticed.

"The Stratosphere?" he roared. Shocked into submission, the audience hushed. "The Stratosphere is a pretend place, a fantasy land, an escape. It isn't real."

The man who started the heckling stood again, yelling, "Your work isn't original." Murmurs followed; the crowd sounded the odd agreement.

The creases lining the professor's chin deepened along with his irritation. "If you can't play an instrument in this world, then you can't play one in the Stratosphere either. The applause is fake. They are only StratBots, cheering you because they're programmed to cheer. If that makes you happy, you're a delusional drug addict. The Strat rewards plagiarism. It doesn't encourage new talent. Why is there no original music?"

"Because everyone died!" a man yelled.

"No!" The professor paused, cranky at his own impatience. His tone softened. "That's irrelevant. Creativity requires meaning to exist, a purpose. But when anybody can pretend to be whatever they want, when imagination has no audience, no drive, and no reason for existence, it starves to death. We don't use the Strat to explore new possibilities. We use it to gaze inwards, searching for self-delusional, narcissistic self-pleasure. The Strat is masturbation."

Thick, dark blood oozed from the professor's hand. Fumbling through his pocket for a handkerchief to stem the flow, he continued, "If you can actually play the guitar, you'll want to learn different tunes. To explore and extend your talents is a natural drive. Talent is the seed of creativity, and acquiring it takes work. If you're happy to stagnate, to rot, go to the Strat. Pretend nothing needs changing, and feed your fragile egos with empty affections."

A burly man yelled from the crowd, "Your nanobots are no different to the Strat. Either way, it's artificial talent."

The lectern rocked under his grip. When he found the right words, he spoke slowly with deliberation. "Unrestrained individualism is the root cause of civil decay. Yes, we're individuals. But we express our individuality socially. The Strat encourages people to gaze inward. If we focus on ourselves exclusively, we'll never learn and grow as a society. Progress is a byproduct of cooperation, not isolation. The nanobots will expand your actual talents by enabling social learning. When someone learns, the nanobots will share that information with the whole population."

After pausing, he made his big announcement. "We can be in charge of our own destiny again, but to do this I need access to ten thousand megawatts of power for sixty days."

In an instant, the crowd erupted into accusations and flailing arms. Only three sources powered anything. A nuclear station in New York and the solar panels and wind turbines printed before the Killer Printer Virus ended all production. He asked for something they wouldn't give. Disappointed, most believed they wasted their time on an old man's impossible dream.

At the lecture hall's rear stood one of the few that abstained from the riotous heckling, Katharine Wilde. She shook her head at the ruckus and muttered, "You old fool."

# Chapter 6 – Sing Club

Allston, twenty minutes' walk from Harvard

Nancy's friends, Sheryl, Katie, Anne, and Kim, took the distraction caused by the rioting audience as an opportunity to escape the long, boring lecture. The girls strode home in silence. After they crossed the bridge, they separated, and each took the most direct path to their homes.

On arrival, they shed their clothes and slipped into their StratSuits. As they hit the connect switch, the real world flickered momentarily. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, and a digital world replaced the real one. While their bodies remained comatose, their minds wandered in digital freedom.

The girls exited their virtual homes and flew to the gate they walked through only fifteen minutes ago in reality. Within a minute, they all arrived, where they hovered fifty yards above Allston's northeastern bridge.

"Why did the boss insist we listen to that stupid talk?"

"I don't know."

"Something about building a strategic alliance with New York."

"What does that even mean?"

"Who cares!"

"It was hilarious when the old man chucked a wobbly!"

"Yes!"

"Not that funny. Not worth wasting a whole day."

Once the girls finished whining, Kim squealed, "What shall we do?" The others rolled their eyes and mocked her tone. Kim pushed on anyway. "Well?"

"Okayyy, what about the Sing Club?"

Everyone nodded agreement.

"Yea, sure, but Nancy won't come."

"She's boring! She can go to her stupid trade meetings. I say we fly without her."

"Why not!"

"But we can't be rude. We must leave a bot."

"Yes."

Sheryl clapped her hands, looked to the sky, and exclaimed, "One StratBot, please!" A young man appeared, whom Sheryl told, "Stay here for Nancy. Tell her we'll be at the Sing Club, okay?"

The StratBot smiled and nodded. "I'll wait."

As everyone spun to depart, Sheryl remained. "This bot is entirely too attractive," she declared as she waved towards the StratBot's head. "Be ugly and fat." The instant she issued the order, the StratBot became fat and ugly. The girls turned and giggled.

"Yes, with warts on your nose."

"And hairy knuckles."

"With a dirty singlet."

"Shorter, smelly, and with bad breath that fogs up when you breathe."

The girls continued until bored. Upon finishing, they left a hideous trollish creature, waiting to give Nancy friendly advice on where to find them.

The four girls shouted, "One, two, three." Palms slapped and they launched. They flew vertically, in entwined spirals, and wove like fighter planes climbing to the sun in a dance of death. When the earth's curvature bowed beneath, they stopped, faced each other, nodded, and yelled together, "One, two, three!" On three, they belted down towards the Stratosphere. Here a digital fantasy world orbited the virtual earth. On the ground, the digital world appeared identical to the real world they recently departed. Above this digital disappointment floated a place where they could satisfy any desire.

In the final three seconds, the girls initiated an elaborate and elegant maneuver, shifting from a headfirst dive into an upright position. Each girl landed with their "signature" pose. Kim's theatrical landing radiated style. Bent knees absorbed the impact, her right fingers splayed, making the gentlest touchdown, and her left hand held overhead and behind her head as if supporting a glass ceiling.

Sheryl fouled her landing, as usual, which always amused the girls. She hit her back mid-roll. But only an inconsequential thump and the girls' ridicule followed. The StratBots mocked lightly. But they soon replaced their short fuss with warm laughter and loud applause.

A StratBot named Hugo approached Sheryl. "I missed you." Hugo was the classic cliché: dark, tall, muscular, and handsome. He leaned into Sheryl's ear and whispered, "The others won't admit it, but you're our favorite. We don't care if you're clumsy. You're smart, caring, and beautiful!" He paused, glanced around, and inched closer. "I yearn for you. Return to my place."

Sheryl blushed, her attempted calmness betrayed by her eyes' titillated flash and lips' quiver. She murmured, "Shh, Hugo. We'll meet tonight." With those words, he departed, and she inhaled deeply and forgot about the momentary excitement.

Strutting side-by-side in perfect step, the girls closed on the Sing Club. The building towered seven stories, clad in shiny black marble. Thin white veins twisted through the rock. Bright neon tubes ran from the ground to the roof, each separated by five yards, held a foot from the wall by stainless steel mounts. Digital art deco. Riotous colors pulsed through the translucent pipes, reflecting the northern lights that contorted and wove above them as if played in fast forward. The club's sky always hovered on twilight, forever promising the big night ahead.

The press swarmed. Between camera flashes and shouted questions, a StratBot reporter punched his voice through the roar. "Sheryl, we heard you'll make a special guest appearance at the Sing Club, is that true?"

Another StratBot elbowed to the pack's front and yelled, "Kim, when are you signing a deal with Gucci to promote their new label?"

"Anne, what shoes are you wearing?"

"Katie, you must allow us to do an in-depth report on you," shouted the Executive Editor for Vanity Fair.

As reporters, columnists, and fashion magazine editors jostled for the girls' attention, a rising chant drowned their words. The swollen crowd pressed from all directions.

Outside the Sing Club's lobby stood twelve serious and beefy bouncers, complete with tight gunmetal gray suits and reflective sunglasses. They formed a phalanx around the girls and rebuffed the fans. Simultaneously, a red carpet unfurled from within the Sing Club entrance. It rolled out between the security guards, onto the street in a straight line. It finished its journey just in time for Kim to place her foot on the end. The crowd "oohed" at her stylish coordination.

Bellhops raced onto the road. Hands held high, they stopped vehicles traveling either direction. With the traffic halted, the girls crossed safely. The drivers blasted their horns and waved their fists from their windows. Caught in gridlock, they emerged from their automobiles and hurled abuse at the unknown obstruction. However, their anger melted into cheers when they spotted the girls. They abandoned their cars where they stood to join the mass of surging people.

In the melee of cheering fans, someone's long fingernails tore a bouncer's shirt off, exposing a chiseled and muscular deep-chocolate body. Embarrassed, he apologized. Sheryl smiled, but the others didn't even notice.

A group of stunning women marched on the Club. Flawless, they strutted like show ponies, noses held high. They shoved to the queue's front and pleaded with the bouncer. He placed his open palms on the lead girl's shoulders and pushed her back as Kim passed. "Sorry, only VIPs now that Thunder Gods are singing."

"Do you know who we are? When my father finds out, you won't get a job guarding rubber dog shit, not even rubber dog shit!"

Despite their protests, the StratBot bouncer denied the beautiful StratBot girls entry.

The Sing Club Manager, another StratBot, rushed out to greet the girls with his entourage of senior staff in tow, gushing, "Thunder Gods, we've waited so long for you. Welcome, welcome! Please come and sing for us."

The Club always used the right mixture of the familiar and different. It changed sufficiently to avoid boredom, without making the girls anxious about their 'Sing Club experience.' Today the Club added a new level overhanging the central stage and a fireworks display.

The crowd made the girls' ears' ring with pain. Within a minute, the chants broke into a rhythm: "Thunder, thunder, thunder!" Fireworks burst as the bouncers guided them to the stage. Another bouncer ejected the StratBot band already playing. They protested but soon retreated to make way for the girls. Above, a huge neon edifice sunk from the cathedral ceiling, emblazoned with the girls' names in ten-foot letters.

They leaped onto the stage. Each grabbed a microphone and started straight into their first song, 'Deaf Roar.' The crowd descended into silence and danced maniacally to the beat, as the girls' voices boomed in pitch perfect harmony.

***

Nancy arrived at the Club an hour later. To her, it was a simple wire frame construct, overlaid with opaque shades of gray. The StratBots appeared to spawn and disappear at random, each one indistinguishable from the next. Plain forms, their external structures crudely defined by millions of polygons. They spoke rarely, and when they did, a familiar monotone voice ensued.

"Can I help?" asked a StratBot.

"Get lost," Nancy responded. The StratBot complied and disappeared.

She jumped onstage, grabbed the first girl, Kim, and shook her until they stopped squawking. The crowd booed and threw drinks at the stage.

"We should be trading. What the hell are you doing?" Nancy demanded.

"We're singing," Kim retorted as she put her hands on her hips. "And everyone wants us to sing."

"No, you're wailing. I'd rather have a hot shower than listen to you four. Let's go."

The girls crossed their arms, pouted, and refused to move. Nancy looked back, huffed, and then shouted, "Before Boss kicks your asses!"

Kim flicked her hair backward. "For your information, people see what they want on the Strat. So what do you see?"

Flustered, an immediate response failed to hit Nancy's lips. What did the gray buildings and StratBots mean? It remained a mystery. After a brief silence, she said, "I see four boring, lazy girls who can't sing for shit."

Kim grimaced. Anne, the quieter but more practical one, changed the subject. "Where are we going?"

Nancy replied, "Cambridge was no good; even with all the visitors. We must travel further. It's so stupid we need to go to these bloody places. Can't we simply ask the system where the cheapest one is located?"

The girls stared at Nancy quizzically without uttering a word.

"Okay," Nancy said. "The boss told us to stay within ten miles, and spend under a thousand rounds of 9mm. Understand?"

The girls nodded, their indifference evident in their vacant expressions. Nancy continued, "Anne, you're to go to Lexington, Katie goes to Woburn, Kim goes to Stoneham, Sheryl goes to Saugus, and I'll go to Waltham. Be back in two hours."

After ten seconds of inaction she added, "The boss said whoever finds the cheapest working heater gets their duties covered by the others for a week."

This caught their interest. No one wanted extra work, and everyone coveted fewer chores. Solidarity vanished as the girls rocketed off to their respective locations.

Flying seemed pointless to Nancy. She didn't know why people flew. Instead, she proclaimed, "Waltham trade hub," and in an instant the gray environment around her transformed into another grayscape: the Waltham Trade Center, in the old Dana Athletic Center.

She materialized in a rotting hall's dark corner. From the shadows, she noted the StratBots. Where her girlfriends found the Strat indistinguishable from reality, she experienced something different. Unlike her friends, she saw two distinct StratBot types. There were the virtual robots created to entertain people. To Nancy, each one was identical to the next. Then there were the avatars of real people that walked the Strat like ghosts after their owners unplugged. She recognized these avatars, despite their pixelated monotones. Only the people plugged in appeared real, vivid color in an otherwise gray virtual world.

She pushed past the StratBots towards the trading hall. With a theatrical flourish, she flung the hall's double doors open. Stretched in front of her, across a thick thirty-foot table, lay a sad collection of objects waiting for a new owner. Cracked cups and mismatched cutlery, a jacket with a torn sleeve, a radio that could tune into static, if it worked at all. She scanned the bench. It all looked like junk, even in black and white.

"Anything you desire, miss?" sneered a voice from behind.

It surprised her, making her jolt. An almost toothless man confronted her on turning. The man's face, worn as an old saddle, morphed into a wide smile. As his grin spread, his open mouth exposed cavities with pustules at the base of his few remaining teeth. His gums were inflamed with disease, and his tongue pulsed and flapped without restraint, like a windsock in a breeze. The sight made her shudder.

"Not pretty enough for you, hey, missy? I can see that. I'm not stupid you know... I only joke. You can see we're very busy, we're sure to sell everything today."

A quick scan only revealed gray StratBots. "Sure, you're busy. We need a water heater, what have you got?"

"Well, we can get to that shortly. Firstly, where are you from?"

"That's my business."

"Okay, okay, but it's important to know. Trust matters. You can see, missy, we're here at Waltham, and you come here to trade, and alls in good faith like, but then you can't tells me where you from? You see a problem?"

She stared him down. After a long silence, she continued. "I'm not here to chit-chat. Are you here to sell?"

"Oh yes, missy. That's what we do. So when I ask you, what do you offer, you can see I'm widening the deal, for the best of both us."

"I'm not interested in up-bartering, widening the deal, or whatever you want to call it. I just want a fucking water heater."

"Okay, missy, okay. Don't get cussin, missy. Whats we've here that you'd also need are air purifiers, some old but serviceable lead acids, and a beautiful 3kW wind turbine—"

"Do you have a heater?"

"Yes, missy, we do... for you. For you we can do a special price, we can further our trust. You name your price."

"No, you name the price, in 9mm."

"Fair enough, we can do it cheap, at great cost to us, because we want to build a relationship. We can sell to you at low price of two thousand rounds."

"Creep! Forget it!" She marched off.

The man yelled after her, "You right. I'm stupid not to see you very experienced trader. Come back. I'll do proper deal."

"Five hundred rounds."

"Nine hundred. No lower."

She paused, straightened, and pushed her shoulders out, like a blowfish. "Five hundred. Last offer."

The rough trader rubbed his chin as he considered the ultimatum. His lips pulled thin, and his nose flared wide. As he struggled to keep his few teeth hidden he muttered, "Okay, but only if you do the purchase, and you tell me where you from."

"I'm not a purchaser."

"Fine. No deal."

Nancy accepted she'd reached the limits of her negotiation skills and relented, certain the girls wouldn't secure a better deal. "Okay. I'll come tomorrow, to test the heater. If all goes well, you'll get your five hundred rounds. I'm from Allston."

"You must attend, and you must have five hundred rounds."

"I know the trading rules."

"If you don't follow our agreement your town will be boycotted. That's how it works everywhere."

"Don't tell me how to do my job," Nancy snapped.

As she turned to leave, the trader added, "Tomorrow is no good. Come Saturday, 7:00 p.m."

"It'll be dark then. Make it noon."

"Five o'clock, this Saturday. That's final."

"Whatever!" Nancy huffed.

She lunged for the Strat disconnect switch. An identical StratBot replaced her. It launched and flew directly to her virtual home. A remnant from another time, Nancy's 'ghost,' like those of every other user, was one of many Strat attributes Katharine created to blur the line between analogue and digital experience.

The prospect of visiting the real Waltham terrified her, although it'd be a brief journey on horseback. A virtual visit carried no risk. Trading was relatively easy. To be a purchaser, however, required she tread the actual earth and all its dangers, to make the physical exchange.

It wouldn't be the first time she left Allston's gates. Yet, those trips were scrounging runs. They stuck close to the town walls and traveled light on fast horses. To purchase was entirely different. It meant abandoning the wall's safety, plodding with a draft horse and cart, exposed and alone, with no means to escape quickly. The thought made her stomach turn. Before she'd even removed the StratSuit, she regretted agreeing to the job.

# Chapter 7 – The Spy

May 15, 2057, 3:42 p.m. – Harvard University, Cambridge, MA

Katharine's eyes followed the rows of seats down to the stage. Below her, the audience stood and yelled abuse, and then pushed towards the professor. She muttered, "You old fool."

She looked behind the professor, to Brenna seated a few paces back. When the mob surged against the stage, Brenna rose to her feet, smoothed down her pants, and marched to the podium. She positioned herself alongside the professor. Her hand dropped to the pistol holstered on her hip. With a flick of her thumb, she unlatched the holster's catch, her palm resting on the gun's grip.

The crowd faltered, their will to fight vanishing, and the front row retreated a few steps. Brenna placed her arm on the professor's back and guided him offstage to the rear exit.

Katharine sighed, relieved to see him leave safely. Distractions erased, she refocused on the task. Firstly, she scanned the immediate area for recognizable faces, searching for risk. No one caught her attention, except for an odd girl, about nineteen years old in a black T-shirt with text reading 'Fear the female planet'. _Fear indeed._

Next, Katharine searched the herd for Trevor. With the Professor gone, the mob turned inwards. Like an orchestra warming up, their shouts and actions were pointless and disorganized. Only one person's movements showed purpose. Ebony coiled hair bobbed through the crowd. Trevor surfaced shortly after. Sallow and sullen, with eyes fixed in perpetual distain. _Never trust a man with curly hair._

She observed him climb the old wooden steps, emerging from the riot below. She caught his eye, looked around to see if anyone watched them, and then in a silent message tilted her head at the lecture hall's far corner. Once certain he understood the directive, she stepped towards their agreed rendezvous.

A dozen security minders surrounded Katharine. All scanned the room for any sign of danger. As she moved, they moved. "No, I just need to be alone. Please wait here. I won't be longer than ten minutes." Her security team complied.

She met Trevor at the top step. Without wasting time on formalities, she grabbed his shirt collar, pulled him close, and whispered, "The old man has gone too far. Find the BQCs. They're too large to move, and they'll consume enormous amounts of energy. You'll locate them if you follow the power source. I'll send you electromagnetic satellite scans that show promise... He can't have shielded it for more than a few miles."

She checked that no one heard before continuing. "There'll be others. Find him before they do. Chaos will chase failure."

With grim seriousness, she looked dead into his eyes. "You must succeed. We're skating on disaster's edge. Do you understand?" Trevor nodded. "When you discover it, contact me. Your security code is AFD19E." Katharine paused before instructing, "Don't write it. Remember it. Alpha, Foxtrot, Delta, One, Nine, Echo." His head dipped in acknowledgement.

"Succeed, and I'll guarantee you a place on the Executive," she said.

"PedCom?"

"No, the Government."

Trevor smirked.

"Now go," she said.

As she returned to Grant, she vacillated on the wisdom of seeking Trevor's help. His ruthless drive meant he always finished the job, given the right motivation. A priceless commodity. Many promised to work, yet failed. No reward swayed them. Their energy didn't extend beyond verbal commitment.

People like Trevor were rare. Still, she only sought his assistance from desperation. Circumstances were dire, maybe worse. But the mission she gave him differed, and it worried her.

"I must speak to the old man after he's finished," she told her aide. The woman nodded and headed towards the podium to organize the meeting.

"What now?" another aide asked.

"We wait."

***

Trevor exited the lecture hall into the arid outside air. He needed to plug into the Strat to access the electromagnetic scans. Before he could do so, he had to complete a five-hour guard duty, starting in twenty minutes. The scans must wait until his shift finished.

He possessed a rare temperament: intrinsic motivation. Historically, ambition drove humanity's achievements—negative, positive, and indifferent. It typically flowed from a psychological flaw, a deeply buried insecurity juxtaposed against an overwhelming need for external validation. This resulted in narcissists dominating management positions.

However, the Strat satisfied users' wildest lusts, and consequently purged most hard-core narcissists from the leadership. The vacuum filled with individuals who'd fallen into the role by accident and circumstance, a minority motivated by duty, and people like Trevor.

An insatiable hunger for power drove him, expressed as a compulsive and unrelenting desire to control. Not for its gratification, but due to a profound inability to connect with and understand others. At the subconscious level, he experienced this as fear. This is why his StratBot girlfriends provided little pleasure. They allowed him to beat them, to whip them, to humiliate them. Every depraved fantasy his imagination conjured lay within grasp. But release never came.

The feared 'other' remained unsuppressed. The Strat encounters only left him angrier, more frustrated. He felt their agony. It seemed real enough. However, he knew their pain was false. No one actually suffered at his hands. At best, he practiced for reality. Yet with each practice session, the need for action increased.

This dynamic differentiated Trevor from almost everyone else. Outwardly, his indifference appeared similar to the masses addicted to the Stratosphere. But only superficially. For most people the Strat hadn't destroyed compassion. Rather, digital reality displaced it. They enjoyed the Strat because they connected with the StratBots. The illusion didn't diminish the emotional impact. The ultimate irony was the social relations in which users invested their virtual lives were nothing more than a projection of their own egos. In other words, through using the Strat, they destroyed the very thing they sought, the affirmation of human contact, and with it, empathy.

In contrast, Trevor never held empathy from the start.

As darkness defines light, his sadism required positive emotions. Only erasing happiness or love delivered him joy. Otherwise inflicting pain became meaningless work. In an emotionless universe, he was marooned in a tightly wound paradox. There were no happy experiences to steal. So he looked to the external world for solutions to his internal contradiction. As a side effect, he was motivated, a rare commodity in post-printer society.

Now his drive focused on New York, the last city on earth. A million people all crammed into a squalid, stinking metropolis. But to him it smelt like power. He believed Katharine's offer promised a path to becoming New York's Governor.

For decades, he'd exercised intolerable self-control. Surrounded by dull animals, every day he compromised and bargained to survive. With his emotions twisted into a tight coil, exercising discipline became harder. But now, with a goal to focus upon, he found the energy to wind the spring further. At the least, Katharine offered a path to revenge. He muttered aloud, "Every compromise I ever made, every apology, every favor, everything I gave of myself, will be paid back with pain and fire."

Duty passed slowly. After day turned to dark, the resident that followed his shift arrived late. Neither spoke, and Trevor headed home. At first, he walked, but when sure the guard could no longer see him, he bolted. Fifteen minutes later, his house appeared as he rounded the last corner. After inhaling deeply, he clenched and unclenched his fists and extended his palms to examine their shaking. He flapped his arms vigorously as he attempted to purge the involuntary tremors.

The veranda bowed under his footsteps, creaking in the blackness of night. At the threshold, he hesitated. Dipping his head, he reached behind his neck and lifted a hessian string. A key tangled in the makeshift necklace. He unlocked the front door and walked to the bedroom through the dark without slowing. The heavy timber door squeaked as he pushed it open. Ahead on the sagged single bed, his StratSuit glinted in the moonlight that poured through the rear window.

He undressed, folded his clothes, and placed them on the wooden stool beside his bunk. He slipped into the StratSuit and activated the connect switch. A second later, his eyes rolled back in his head. The real world gave way to a digital one.

Where satellites defined the external digital world, owners designed their building's interiors. Inside, his house shone white, corners hidden in unshaded color that left the impression he floated in a brilliant space of pure light. An unbroken ring of images circled this enormous and otherwise empty cavern.

Each picture frame measured precisely five by ten inches, with an inch between each one. Close-ups of his tortured virtual victims: a disemboweled torso, a severed finger, a punctured eyeball. Trevor strolled the room, hands behind his back. He lingered every few yards to examine his art.

On the last wall he stopped, turning to inspect the photo closely. A warm smile grew. He reached out, stroked the frame, and whispered, "My only animal print." The photo displayed a puppy with a shattered leg. A sledgehammer lay beside the dog. He paused before deciding and removed it from the wall. "Delete." It disappeared. "Just people."

A gap formed in the ring. As he tapped at the blank spot, he considered resizing the images to close the space. Indecision wavered with drumming fingers until he concluded he'd replace it when he'd dealt with the scans.

He uttered a command, and the scans materialized in his right hand. As he inspected them, his shoulders sunk. Colorado Springs showed the only promise. A bright red trail indicated someone drew enormous quantities of power down the local high-tension towers. Nearly two thousand miles away, reaching the Springs required more than horse or foot. Although stealing a chopper sounded easy, it was impractical.

It'd take at least ten refueling stops, probably double for safety. He'd be lucky to complete the round trip in four days. The chances of finding usable fuel were slim. Worse, depots were too precious to leave unguarded. He'd no qualms dispensing the guards with an assault rifle; however, he was no commando, and each depot increased his risk of failure.

More importantly, when he reflected on the professor's trip, he realized he must've been supported. Whoever the professor's allies were, they'd no doubt report his steady progress towards Colorado.

He pushed himself to think harder. A Cessna required three or four refills. Twenty hours. Without stealth. No quick landings or getaways.

I can't trek thousands of miles to discover something else caused the power leakage. Brenna holds the key. She must know the BQC's location.

Such a smug, self-righteous cow, like her idol, that pathetic old man, Professor Igan. How I'd love bringing her to her knees.

The thought provided great pleasure. He whittled away half an hour considering the details of her torture, the planning, and the detached efficient execution. Eyes glazed as he contemplated practicing scenarios on his StratBot girls. A pause followed. The word 'discipline' came to mind. No matter how delightful the fantasy, aside from today, all his interactions with Brenna were via the Strat. Unlikely he'd see her again.

Another option manifested from his mind's recesses: Logan. Many years ago, she was Brenna's assistant technician. Although the location remained a mystery, he believed she'd worked for the professor. Logically, this meant she was part of the BQC project.

Interrogation would deliver the answers, and problems. He'd only need to threaten her son. But if he did, he'd have to kill them both. Worry consumed him as he considered the deed. Not for the murder; that'd bring him pleasure. Rather, in the town's claustrophobic confines, a body presented complication. To leave them invited court martial and subsequent execution. To remove them risked discovery. He deliberated dismembering the bodies, but the thought of the long messy work extinguished the option.

Then it occurred to him, like inspiration that sparked from existence out of nothing. He'd poison Logan. In her delirium she'd betray the BQCs' location. Afterward, he'd leave her to die. It'd appear natural.

For the next three hours, he mentally cataloged all the different poisons he could use, the merits, benefits, and risks of each. He considered how he'd acquire and administer the poison, how he'd trick her into divulging the BQCs' position, and when and how he'd leave her.

After he planned every detail, brooded over every permutation imaginable, and how he'd respond, he turned to a thought so profound, so obvious, and so compelling he became angry with himself for not asking it earlier. If he found the BQCs, what next? _What good comes from being Katharine's obedient dog?_

# Chapter 8 – The Purchaser

May 15, 2057, 4:47 p.m. – Allston

In other circumstances, Nancy would've gloated over the deal. Presently, even the arduous task of shedding the StratSuit failed to dislodge her thoughts from worry. She hoped to extricate herself from purchasing without appearing cowardly. An answer didn't materialize.

She headed to Admin to meet Robert, the town boss. Like other bosses, Robert coordinated resources, approved priorities, rosters, managed discipline, and so forth. To Allston residents, he was power's pinnacle, an absolute authority. He was a tall, burly man with a low voice and a short temper. His face sported perpetual thick stubble, grayed in patches by hard years. The hair on his head thinned, which he regularly hacked to an inch of his skull with blunt scissors. His eyes only expressed two emotions, annoyance and anger. Any other time they remained inscrutable.

In another life, he may have been a trawler captain, grizzled and grumpy, half-pickled by salt and grog. The clothes he wore added to the image. Heavy oilskin coats for rain and cold and singlets, denim, and steel cap leather boots for hot days. Colors like a water-washed storm.

As she walked to Admin, her mind drifted from Robert to the insulated copper wires above. They hung like a poorly constructed spider web, a network of communication cables that led from the sentry towers on the town's perimeter to Admin. Twenty yards away, a snapped cable dangled from a house roof.

Her attention turned to trace the cable's origins. The other end draped between the house's rear and a dead maple tree. After that, it disappeared. She lost interest and returned her focus to the path ahead, just in time to avoid stepping in a sewerage puddle.

"Eww!"

A pipe fed gurgling sludge from a nearby house directly into the concrete gutter. With the drains long blocked, the effluent accumulated in a pond. She skirted its edge.

Above, all the cables converged on top of an old flagpole, whereupon they twisted down the mast, black on white, towards the Admin building. A large asphalted flat area, about a quarter of a football field, stood between her and Admin. Cracks defined wide slabs that tilted a few degrees against each other, like ice floes on a rough arctic sea, fossilized in a moment of time.

She crossed the uneven parade ground and knocked on the Admin door. No answer. She called out, "Hello... Hello... Hello!" Still no response. Finally, she bashed it.

With the air lock disabled, she walked to the emergency exit at the building's extremity and heaved against the handle. Rubber seals held it, until its grip released, and it flung open. The hall echoed as metal smacked into masonry. She cringed, expecting a harsh rebuke. Nothing happened. Light streamed behind her, casting a long shadow inside Admin.

Frozen by indecision, she stared at the empty chair where Robert should've sat. It looked like a vacant throne. The hated king absent, and yet it unnerved her. But fear required suppression. Hands on hips, she pouted, spun on her heels, and departed. At first she walked. But as her worry grew, her pace followed. After a minute, she sprinted towards Allston's main gate. In the last few hundred yards, she slowed to avoid appearing a desperate fool.

A makeshift barrier spanned the town's southern outskirts, shadowing the old Massachusetts Turnpike. Soon after the civil war started, the town built the wall from thousands of locally abandoned cars, in a time when cranes and bulldozers still functioned. The automobiles stacked six high, two deep, and swept for miles either direction. From a distance, their colors retreated to rust. A yard away, a subdued rainbow remained visible in thumbnail-sized paint chips that floated on shades of blotched orange-brown.

Grid plates stretched along the wall's top, spot-welded to the vehicles' roofs. The gangway turned, climbed, and fell with the barricade's undulations. A patchwork of metal squares covered its façade, where it rose four feet above the path to provide guards with cover.

Every hundred yards the flimsy corridor split into a T intersection, linking the wall to the towers. The link wobbled and twisted under even the lightest tread. Empty air filled the gap below the grid plates. Death waited patiently for the ill-balanced.

The lookouts were nothing more than small iron boxes hoisted high above the earth beneath open-framed steel pylons held firm by diagonal wire braces. Guards could see for miles from their perch, provided the wind cleared the smog.

Powerful lights sat inside the towers, welded to gimbals, which allowed them to move through a hemisphere. Defenders used the lights to rain blinding torrents of photons on anyone stupid enough to wander into their range.

Water cannons formed the other main defense, lining the metal levee at twenty-foot intervals. The weapons drew on the river's inexhaustible liquid supplies. Replacements were hardy and plentiful. With no functioning printers, no cure to the Printer Killer Virus in sight, and no manufacturing industries, the town needed to build defenses from readily available resources.

A variety of booby-traps of dubious utility stretched two hundred yards ahead of the defensive barrier. These often failed, rusted out, or animals triggered them before they could do their intended harm. They patrolled the wall endlessly, sniffing out discarded scraps, tossed sporadically from the thinly guarded barricade.

In the north, the Charles River formed a natural defensive ring around the town's remaining perimeter. Only one bridge still crossed the slow russet water. It linked Lower Allston to Harvard University. Potential attackers faced a narrow entrance at the road's end, which compensated for this chink in the aquatic armor.

Nancy peered up. The South Gate loomed ahead, appearing dark against the late afternoon sun. Shielding her eyes from the bright light, she squinted, trying to discern movement in the twenty-foot towers that flanked the passage.

At the tower's base she shouted, "Hello?"

A young man's voice answered back, "Yes?" followed by the sound of shuffling, dragging feet.

_Hell almighty, it's the gimp._ Nancy groaned. She stopped and almost turned away. But she needed answers. "Where is everyone? Admin's empty."

"Boss is running Admin from the Strat," Gus replied.

"You must be pissed!" she muttered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Do your job."

She watched Gus's expression turn sullen before marching off. On her third step, she stopped, spun, and yelled, "How the hell did you get up there?" She threw her open palms into the air and jutted her head forward with a supercilious, sarcastic grin.

"My limbs don't work, but my brain functions fine."

Her mouth opened, but a caustic response eluded her, so she snapped her jaw shut, turned with a huff, and left.

As she strode away, Nancy considered Robert's possible whereabouts. The town barely occupied three hundred hectares. On a clear day, she walked the perimeter in two hours. Even in such claustrophobic space, he might be anywhere. Door knocking invited death. Although it annoyed her, she must don the StratSuit again. So she headed home.

Once inside, she retrieved a bag from her cupboard's rear and removed her StratSuit. Impatient, at first she tried pulling it over her clothes. But the suit blinked error messages. An exasperated sigh followed as she undressed and donned the StratSuit. With everything connected, she lay back and flicked the connection switch.

A second later, she made her way to the virtual Admin building. When she arrived, she didn't knock, she simply entered.

Robert's graveled voice immediately blasted her. "Did I give you permission to enter? All the bad air's getting in. You just earned an extra duty."

"But... this is the Strat. There's no..."

"What do you want?" Across the room, Robert perched behind a splendid cherry wood bureau, the top covered in green leather with gold inlay. He remained bowed as he continued reading, deliberately ignoring her. Samantha, Robert's lieutenant, sat ten yards away. Her desk was less ornate but still striking, beech with ebony trim and thin clean lines. Samantha's gaze lifted briefly, and then she refocused on her work. A minute's silence passed.

"I—"

Robert waved his arm, motioning Nancy to the seat. When she didn't comply, his head rose and he commanded, "Sit."

With a flick of her hair, she strode to his desk. After a short defiant show, she slumped into the chair. "I've made a deal, five hundred rounds for a heater, from Waltham, this Saturday at 5pm. They want me to be the purchaser."

"Any problems?" He inspected her in disbelief.

"Maybe. The dealer was a huge sleaze. Can't we fix our heater?"

"Fix it?"

"Yes, can't we repair it?"

"Can you?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Don't ask stupid questions."

"Can someone come with me then?"

Robert scratched his chin. A wry smile spread over his weather-beaten face. "You do know this is all bullshit."

"What do you mean?" She crossed her arms.

He shifted in his seat, leaned over the desk, and spoke with the clipped and slow tone an adult might use to chastise a child for speaking to strangers, minus any parental concern for her wellbeing. "It's too good to be true. Another heater won't be produced in our lifetime. What's out there is it. When they break, they're broken forever. And everything is becoming scarcer."

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"Yes."

Anger boiled in Nancy's eyes. She thumped the table with both fists and yelled, "Why are you in the Strat, anyway? Don't you work, Robert?"

Red-faced, he stood abruptly, sending his chair careening across the marble floor. "You know what, you have work too. Pack a horse and a cart... for one. You'll be the purchaser. And you can call me Boss, just like everyone else does."

"Fuck you!"

"Get out now!" Robert roared.

Nancy slammed the door as she exited. Inside, Admin complied with the intricate chain of physical reactions expected from the real world. The door sent a gust of virtual wind, which lifted the virtual papers from the virtual writing desk, and scattered them across the virtual floor. A perfect spell. Nothing pitted perception against reality.

After Nancy departed, Samantha asked, "Was that sensible?"

Leathered wrinkles creased in disapproval. Robert glanced at Samantha and waved his hand, dismissing her challenge. "She's got a horse. If the situation sours, she can escape fast. Eventually, we all take the plunge. Waltham's near enough. Besides, she has a big mouth. She must learn her place."

Samantha's right eyebrow rose. "Give her a rifle, Boss."

Robert growled.

***

Nancy hit the disconnect switch. Her vision blurred momentarily. Gray pixels gave way to a gray reality.

A sigh escaped her lips as she peeled away the StratSuit and slipped into an old tracksuit. Events had escalated rapidly. Although she coveted change, becoming a purchaser terrified her. She'd lost control, an island of peace in a sea of fear.

Her thoughts circled to the trip's logistics, and with that, her panic melted slightly as she focused on details. The Waltham journey required a horse and cart. So she headed to the stables, happy to make preparation a poor substitute for control.

As she walked, her shoulders sunk. She considered that perhaps she'd authored her own predicament. But those thoughts soon disappeared. In their place, she felt a storm of self-righteous rage, played as a series of choreographed arguments in which she was always the defiant winner.

When she reached the horses, she calmed somewhat. A shiny black coat, an acknowledging nicker, and the strangely comforting smell of manure, straw, and animal sweat greeted her. A quick inventory of the riding gear showed everything was in order. She took a carrot from a bucket and fed and stroked the animal. "Now, you'll be a good boy for me, won't you?"

With her eyes focused on its glistening coat, she brushed it straight and resolved that she'd make the deal; she'd succeed, and she'd be the best purchaser in history.

# Chapter 9 – Skyscraper

May 15, 2057, 5:02 p.m. – Hancock Tower, Boston

Katharine's choppers threw a thumping torrent of noise down the concrete fire stairs. The wind echoed and bounced past her, her hair blown into a wild mess. The gust tumbled down flights of steps and disappeared into a dark void. Above her, the exit doors slammed shut. Blackness immediately enveloped everything.

She rustled through her handbag and retrieved a flashlight, its metal cold to the touch. After a few sharp hits, it responded with a narrow cone of luminescence cut from darkness. The hard soles of her boots clapped and crunched on the concrete. It sounded empty. Two flights of steps later, a thin rectangle of light, formed from a door held an inch ajar, appeared. She pushed the creaking obstruction open to reveal the light's source.

After her eyes adjusted, she recognized the professor and Brenna. With a smile and nod, he dismissed his colleague.

"It was difficult to pry Grant away. Tell him I'm okay," Katharine told Brenna as she passed her. Brenna agreed and departed for the roof.

"It's good to see you," the professor said.

Katharine flashed a grin. A serious look returned immediately after. She glanced over the room. It belonged to a luxury apartment, perched fifty-eight stories high. Its opulence was long faded. Wide glass walls once surveyed the city with a kingly gaze. Now shattered, they devolved to cave entrances, a welcome refuge for passing birds. Rain and windblown grime saturated the carpets, providing a bed onto which moss clung in the darker recesses. Furniture lay scattered and broken, lifted and heaped against the far wall by periodic gales. Rodent and bird nests nestled under the twisted mess. Animal droppings covered flat surfaces in a thick slimy mat. Rot hung ripe.

She moved towards the balcony and motioned for the professor to join her. Outside, the putrid stench gave way to stale, dry air. It smelt of contamination and tasted metallic. Stones exposed by crumbled concrete tumbled over the edge, kicked up by her steps. Grit and gravel rained in a thin waterfall and disappeared in silence to the deep.

Below, an amputated skyscraper reached up, hollow and charred like a burnt tree stump. Steel girders had bent and peeled away from the building's northern façade. The top three floors had crumbled, forming a steep slope, as if fallen in a landslide. A few office cubicles stubbornly gripped the precipice, the others flattened long ago by wind and falling debris.

Brown clouds hung overhead, stretched thin by the winds that raged high in the atmosphere. Their wispy edges blended seamlessly, a hint of blue faintly detectable in isolated patches. Otherwise, the horizon spread wide and featureless, the earth and sky merged by gray.

The professor joined Katharine on the balcony, his steps slow and unsteady. Rusted stumps dotted its edge where a railing once protected viewers from a drop so high they would've died from a heart attack long before they hit the pavement.

She turned to him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Straight to the point!"

"Either you don't understand, or you don't care."

She realized her temper would undo her and stopped speaking. The professor waited. Moments later she continued. "New York is my city. I'm responsible for a million people. Sure, there's the government. But it's a group of fools elected by idiots. They are unable and unwilling to make hard decisions. No one wants to work, and everyone wants everything. The only thing stopping us descending into the Stone Age is the Strat. And yes, I recognize the irony." She shrugged and held her hands out theatrically.

"Outside New York," she said, "there's only petty dictators and criminals. The city's our last chance. These feudalist tribes are pointless." Her hand stabbed the air, pointing to an imaginary group. "They're nothing but animals surviving one day to the next. This can't be the pinnacle of our evolution. Only the Strat can hold New York together while we rebuild civil society."

Her tone became despondent and less combative. "I beg you, Dad. The Strat servers are close to finished. There are no replacements. We haven't produced a single new chip for eighteen years. All the scientists you saw today think they're great innovators. But they're white-coated dunces cobbling together decades-old technology to prop up the Strat. Only your BQCs can save us."

His face sagged, tallow and drawn. "Sorry, the answer is no."

"You're a fool. Others will search for you... I can't restrain them any longer."

"Is that a threat?" A widened expression and a slight rise in pitch betrayed his surprise.

"No... never. It's simply the truth. I'm losing control, and when I do, chaos will follow. If you help me, we can fix the Strat. Then we can extricate ourselves from this mess. Please. I'm begging you."

A twinkle glistened in the professor's eyes. He reached to touch her arm. She pulled away. Surprised, a hurt expression followed, and his gaze drifted down. He stared at the ground as if searching for answers in the grit under his shoes. Upon raising his head, he said softly, "The Strat is the problem. It's what caused the mess."

"You see things in black and white. It's not that simple." She felt guilty for her response's harshness, but the situation didn't permit sentimentality.

"Yes, it is. Why are children almost extinct? You know the answer. Men prefer compliant StratBots to investing in relationships. Why has technological advance halted? Because your scientists prefer receiving a virtual Nobel Prize nightly, rather than conducting tedious experimental research. Why do people eat gruel daily, making no effort to grow palatable food? Because every minute farming is precious time spent away from the Strat. Duties have become chores. All spare seconds go to the Strat. Why would anyone wake from their dream world to improve the real one?"

Halfway through his monologue she bit her bottom lip to restrain her anger. When he finished she blurted, "Fine! You love simplification, so here's the simple truth. The Strat servers have another month. Two, maybe... at best. After that, they're gone forever. There's nothing to replace them. The Strat will disappear. I'll lose power shortly afterward. But that's not the problem. You can't rebuild civil society with tribes. You need a critical mass of people. Only New York meets that criterion. Once the Strat disappears, everyone will pack their bags and head for the hills, leaving humanity behind to wander a toxic planet without direction or purpose."

"Perhaps. But if progress's price is temporary retreat, then there's no option. The longer the Strat survives, the harder recovery becomes. Help me arm people with the knowledge to build a better future."

"Time's expired. Besides, I don't have enough power. You're demanding the impossible," Katharine said.

"We can get reactor number six running, it'll provide the energy we need."

"I'm talking about political power, not electricity. If you saw me earlier, much earlier, we could've done something. But you sprang this on me now. Do you expect me to drop everything, turn the whole edifice around single handily, and help you...on faith?"

Frustrated, she grunted. "Even if I understood your proposal, and honestly I don't know how it'd play out, you're talking about a logistical and political nightmare. It'd take months to execute. If it didn't work—and with all due respect, this wouldn't be your first failure—we'll have used our last bullet. You're proposing to transform humanity into super-humans."

Her voice rose in pitch. "What happens if you cannot make everyone superhuman simultaneously? Or some nanobots fail? You love questioning me; well, answer mine! There's a sea of human trash breaking against the final bastion of order. I know. Unlike you, I must fight, compromise, and occasionally crush it... every single bloody day. And you're proposing to empower these individuals too... the depraved, the murderers, the thieves, the rapists... the lot? Or do you possess an unimpeachable selection criteria, one that'll guarantee unanimous acceptance? How can you divide people into the deserving and undeserving, without a murmur of dissent? Who yells the loudest? You're living in a utopian dream world, as always."

"You misunderstand me, dear."

"Have I? You're obsessed with your solution, like it's the only one. What about genetic engineering, or artificial intelligence? You're not truth's sole shareholder."

"You don't understand me."

"Well, explain it!"

He responded more forcefully. "The issue isn't humanity's lack of ability. We possess an infinite supply. The problem is the inability to manage our potential."

His face softened. "Rampant individualism is the enemy. Genetic engineering only promises to accelerate our society faster and deeper into the crisis. Everybody thinks they're the last hero. They can only imagine a world with one protagonist, themselves. So they fight to squash others' ambitions. The answer to societal cohesion, to maximizing progress for all, is to enable a truly social learning, to share individuals' knowledge socially."

He waved his hands dismissively. "Artificial intelligence is a worse solution. If humanity attempts to stand again using AI as a crutch, we'll only render ourselves irrelevant before we even reach our feet."

"Bullshit, Dad, wake up from your fantasy world. We have real problems requiring immediate answers. But you act as if you're writing a paper for a long-dead academic journal. If we fail to fix the Strat servers, people will die."

She hesitated. "The word is out about your BQCs. Someone will hunt you, and I can't stop them. Not unless you help me so I can help you. They believe your BQCs can cure the Printer Killer Virus, that they can resurrect the printers."

"That'll never happen. Let them come. I'm ready."

"They will," she said like a preacher delivering news of a family member's death. "The printers represent a promise they can live in the Strat unimpeded by physical needs. In their minds, you're blocking their journey from hell to utopia."

As he returned inside he repeated, "Let them come."

***

Katharine didn't know if the professor bluffed. Either way, increased urgency weighed her departure.

She scaled the steps and flung open the door that led to the Hancock Tower roof and blinked at the bright light. Grant came into focus as he marched towards her.

"Ready?"

She nodded. "Take us to the Governor's house. He insists on speaking with me."

"Yes, ma'am." Grant whistled.

The men lined along the edge switched their attention from risk assessment to Grant, who spun his index finger in the air, mimicking the chopper's blades. The soldiers closed on the aircraft with a casual march born from discipline and confidence. Below their crisp short-sleeved shirts, Special Forces tattoos peeked out, faded green drawn on heavy biceps.

Grant motioned half his security team to the first helicopter and half to the second. He turned to Katharine and extended an open palm towards her ride. "Let's go."

As they boarded, the pilot started the engines. It whined then rumbled. Gears dragged the long drooped blades in slow circles, as if pulling through syrup. Once the motors overcame inertia, the blades stiffened, until they accelerated enough to create a powerful downdraft, thumping rhythmically. She buckled up, and the helicopter ascended.

Barely ten minutes into the flight, rifle muzzles began to flash below.

"This is too dangerous. Climb," Grant ordered the pilot.

"She's old. The altitude is too hard on her," the pilot yelled above the whining motor. A few bullets found their mark. _Zips_ and _pings_ ripped through the cockpit. Katharine jolted. Grant didn't flinch.

"Fly to ten thousand feet now. That's an order," Grant said.

"I don't report to you. The Governor loaned you these choppers from the goodness of his heart."

"Just do it," Grant yelled.

"Okay, keep your pants on." The pilot shook his head. Once they climbed above the danger he added, "It's fine for you, but there're no replacements. My commander made it clear I'd suffer the same fate as this chopper. If it dies, so do I."

"If you stayed low, we would've all died regardless," Grant said.

"I never understood why these clowns shoot at us, anyway."

"You said it yourself, these birds are rare."

"They're no good to them busted." The pilot shrugged.

"Yes. But you assume people with rifles are rational." Grant returned to his seat. The remaining journey passed without conversation.

From their vantage, old industrial printers dominated the landscape. Hundreds broke through the haze in every direction the eye wandered, all identical. Capable of self-replication within three years, they occupied two acres, and towered four hundred yards high. Most towns owned one, some more.

From their chopper it looked as if a giant had tossed handfuls of generic toy buildings across the terrain. A decade of decay pulled the printers to their knees. Wind tore their protection away; rain rusted their bones; animals nested in their brains. Yet in death, they still breathed malevolence. Decomposition failed to make them a part of the landscape. They stood patiently, defiantly; a battered but undefeated army waiting for the order to march.

Day gave way to twilight. Below them small arms fire flashed like florescent algae in a dark sea. It didn't matter; they were too high.

New York City's skyline crawled into focus from behind the omnipresent rusted haze. The city was actually Long Island. Residents had called it New York for seven years.

During the mid-2030s, Katharine anticipated the printers would unleash a consumption explosion that'd unravel society. Consequently, she bought Long Island real estate decades ago when money still held value.

After the civil war, the island promised safety when everywhere else delivered violence. Along the foreshore, she'd commissioned builders to construct monolithic concrete bastions, faced against an unnamed enemy. Inside, a garrison of five thousand troops defended New York, of which a quarter was fit to fight.

Despite her contributions, Katharine's power diminished with civil society's collapse and now hung on an unspoken pledge that she'd maintain the Strat, a guarantee close to expiry. 

# Chapter 10 – The Governor

May 15, 2057, 7:31 p.m. – Sagaponack Southampton, New York

Katharine's choppers descended onto an expansive patch of manicured lawn. Perched on a gentle hill fifty yards ahead sat a sprawling mansion called Governor's House. It belonged to an era when the rich elite displayed their wealth with extravagant properties that demanded gardeners, butlers, and servants to maintain.

The Governor spared no expense repairing the residence, all billed to New York City. He'd goaded, threatened, and bribed a small army of workers to fix the property well before voting closed. Almost externally complete, the estate achieved Carl's aim, projecting an image of power.

After the chopper landed, Grant swept the area for threats. Once satisfied, he escorted Katharine to the mansion proper. The entrance towered above. She needed to lift her head to take in the full vista. White-and-black veined, polished marble columns guarded heavy double doors, decorated with intricate carvings painted ivory and trimmed with delicate gold leaf details.

"I see the bugger is already playing games. No greeting? Perhaps he's deaf?" Katharine said.

Grant stepped to the door, grabbed the wrought iron knocker, and rapped it against the plate. A low thud sounded, solid without echo. When no one answered, he said to Katharine, "He might not hear through his ear fat, ma'am."

The governor, Carl Gunther, was indeed rotund. In fact, he was corpulent. Overindulgence transformed his head into an almost formless ball. A button nose broke the smooth circumference of his otherwise soft, swollen skin. His eyes and mouth sunk deep into his face, like heavy weights drowning in a fluffy cushion.

He won the election by promising free print. Appealing to base fears, he whipped the population into hysteria by hinting at improbable but popular conspiracy theories. With little effort, his words transformed citizens into a mob, who repaid him by suffocating reason. All the remaining candidates raced to the bottom, but with Carl always ahead.

At one point, his claims became so obtuse, so corrosive, that Katharine contemplated having him assassinated. But she considered Carl unexceptional. Death solved nothing.

Grant bashed the mansion door again. It rattled, heavy and low with each knock, and he kept beating until a butler finally opened it. The servant reviewed Grant with understated derision and turned to Katharine stiffly, his head and shoulders moving as if locked. "Welcome to the Governor's House, ma'am. Please follow me to the drawing room. Your gentlemen escorts can remain outside."

"No, they'll come with me." Ignoring the butler, Katharine pushed past. As she strode the long hall, the butler followed in her wake and threw fussing complaints at her heels. A dozen doorways lined the corridor.

"You must wait for the Governor in the drawing room."

"Where is he?" she demanded. She didn't slow to address the butler or to examine the rooms. Instead, she marched towards the grand hall's end and flung open each door she passed. "Where would a weasel hide? Down the back?"

"I beg your pardon, miss!"

The butler's words echoed up the hall. Katharine halted. A faint red tinge colored her cheeks. Otherwise stone faced, she spun to the butler. "Call me miss again and my good friend here will hoist you by your feet up that stupid flagpole out front. Now get out of my face."

Like a frightened beetle, the butler scurried towards the two large doors at the corridor's extremity.

"Ah-ha. I bet the pompous prick is in here." With Grant in tow, she headed for the room into which the butler escaped. Boots marched in unison with her high heels, a rhythmic drum. At the hall's end, she hurled open the doors and spotted Carl, cowered in the corner, in front of a bookcase. The butler fled through a rear exit.

Flanked by her security team, they stomped into the library in locked step. One foot from Carl's face, she halted simultaneously with her entourage. An unpracticed and unintended maneuver, born from the situation's gravity.

A chaise lounge broke Carl's backward stumble. A heavy thud followed as he landed, backside on the fine tapestry upholstery. He squirmed like a man who might wet himself and cry any second. "Have you come to arrest me?" His voice cracked as if trying to restrain tears.

Whatever reason he'd summoned her, Katharine saw he hadn't expected her to arrive with soldiers. Watching Carl's reaction, she realized an opportunity had landed in her lap. Choice now rested in her hands.

For the briefest moment, she reconsidered dealing with Carl. She could arrest him, and that'd end her problems with him. The lack of official authority didn't diminish her influence. More importantly, she could threaten violence. She'd be unaccountable. It'd just be the exercise of raw power. Later, she'd wrap the matter in a neat legal bundle, if necessary. But if she arrested him, what next? At least she could negotiate with Carl. Without him, she'd be negotiating with anarchy.

"Consider yourself on probation, at my pleasure."

With unease, she watched Carl's attitude abruptly shift. The wind had changed direction, and he took advantage of it with all the skill of an old sailor. He straightened himself up in his lounge, raised himself to his feet, and then stepped toe-to-toe with Katharine. An arrogant look flashed through his eyes, evicting the fear they betrayed only moments ago. "You have no authority. However, we've much to discuss." He looked to Grant. Without breaking eye contact he said, "Alone."

"Fine," she snapped and nodded to Grant, who evacuated the room, closing the double doors behind him. The two stood in awkward silence.

"You lied shamelessly throughout the election," Katharine said after a minute. "Now you must act on your promises. But your lies led you into a dead end."

"Whether there's a secret store of print isn't the issue."

His comment and its defensive delivery confirmed her suspicions. "Well, you certainly made it one. Everyone thinks there are hidden treasure caves full of print scavenged by PedCom. They think we're hoarding washing machines, ovens, microwaves, computers, cars, and whatever other consumer goods they can dream of. Some people don't even believe we're scavenging old print. They're certain we possess a functional industrial printer, that we're producing new print. Now your lies have gained traction, you've won power, and the citizens will expect you to deliver. They want their goodies. So what's your plan?"

Carl's face became rounder, puffed with indignation. "Don't lecture me. You kept your immense wealth, long after the system that promoted you collapsed. There's ample print to satisfy everyone. But you continue to enforce artificial scarcity. New Yorkers are ready to riot. It's a new world, and you're blocking progress. The issue—"

"Enough!" she yelled. The room fell silent. "To be frank, I can't decide whether you believe your own bullshit, or you consider me a fool. What exactly are you proposing?"

"Remove the print tax," he replied instantly.

"And then what?" she rebuffed twice as fast.

The ball landed in Carl's court, but his hushed expression showed he didn't know how to lob it back. Before he'd the opportunity to collect his thoughts, she continued, "Carl, I can summarize this old tune in one sentence: 'we are living poor in a land of plenty.' People perceive the world simplistically. They see the abandoned houses, the print they can scrounge, and they remember another time, when supply was plentiful. The Strat tells them daily they're wonderful, that they deserve everything, that they're perfect in every way. And when hunger or compulsory duties drag them from utopia, forcing them to confront reality, they respond like children, and demand existence obeys the same rules as the Strat."

Carl fidgeted, and Katharine stepped closer. "Well, the real world is different." She stomped a heel on the checked oak floor, causing him to jolt. "Here, we must maintain the Strat servers, clear sewage lines, fix roads, train a defense force, grow food, and treat the ill. The list is endless. In the thinly populated towns, residents can abandon houses and move to another. New Yorkers must work harder than everyone else. The reason is simple. The infrastructure hasn't shrunk with the population. In a state of decay, economies of scale function in reverse."

She hesitated, searching for signs he listened. Once certain of his attention she continued in a more conciliatory tone. "If we abolish taxes, the entire infrastructure will crumble, and with it, the city. If New Yorkers wished to live in the Stone Age or become slaves in some tin-pot dictator's town, they'd have deserted. Nothing's stopped them. Yet they stayed. It may be awful, but the alternative is worse. The citizens elected you to make this place sustainable, to continue the rule of law, not to throw it into anarchy."

Her tone softened. "The print tax always made me uncomfortable. It was an undesirable necessity. But now government is firmly re-established in our walls, its appropriate taxation responsibilities returned to elected officials. But you won't get a free ride. The city will compensate PedCom for the services it provides to facilitate trade. My staff aren't volunteers."

Like a fighter caught by an unexpected left hook, Carl appeared stunned. Framed by swollen cheeks, his mouth became small and puckered. It wobbled, but words didn't form. He straightened and tugged down his suit coat. "How would you propose to roll this out, Katharine?"

"Infrastructure is critical. If civic services stall, riots will follow. The situation requires an economic solution, not a political one. The print tax is a clumsy mechanism for redirecting resources from personal consumption to community works. Money would be more effective."

His eyebrows rose, and his head lifted slightly. "This means the government would take ownership of an unpopular tax."

"Carl, popular taxes don't exist. However, you'll also control who pays and how much. Monetary taxes will be more palatable than print taxes. As I said, I never liked the print tax. It looked like a tribute. It's easy to understand how the myths of 'hoards of PedCom print' emerged. New Yorkers only remembered us collecting the print. They conveniently forgot when we redistributed it as wages for infrastructure upkeep. It's breathtakingly inefficient to acquire, catalogue, store, and redistribute print. The savings derived from returning to a cash system will allow you to cut the effective 'print tax' rate without affecting civil maintenance. Citizens will hail you as a great leader who ushered in a golden age. After you cut taxes, your popularity will soar."

A small grin snuck from his mouth's corner as he nodded. The gesture appeared overly subdued, as if forced, or suppressed.

"It looks like we might be close to an agreement. Shall we walk?" Katharine led him through the double doors where Grant waited in the mansion's regal hallway. Once level with Grant she spun to Carl. "There's one more issue to discuss. You've made outrageous claims we're hoarding print."

Words teetered on the edge of his lips. Cheeks puffed with manufactured outrage.

"Carl, I haven't raised this to rehash the election. It was ugly, but I can forgive you, once. We can become strong partners. This is why I made an obvious point. You can't return to the electorate empty-handed."

His hue retreated to pink, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"You can have the print stores," she said. "We hold the print for five days on average before using it to pay for city works. Citizens won't understand these are temporary storage facilities. New Yorkers will only register the large stockpiles and conclude it's the 'print hoard' you promised. Now, in truth, you can't give it away, not without services halting within a week. People may want free print, but they also want their garbage removed."

Carl shuffled and briefly gazed to his feet. When his head lifted, she persevered. "There's a solution. Use the print to underwrite the new currency. This allows you to expose the print hoards and protect it from theft. Words are important. Stay on message. Tell New Yorkers that cash guarantees access to a set value of print. Confidence is critical. Understand?"

He nodded.

"After all your election posturing, you'll still need a patsy. Here is how it'll unfold. You'll discover the print hoard after a brief investigation. You'll find the top military brass responsible. The inquiry will also uncover coup plans. You'll immediately install Grant, my Security Team Leader, as the Commander-in-Chief of the New York Army."

"Your Security Guard?" Carl looked gob smacked.

"He used to be a Special Forces colonel. He's overqualified."

"But that'll leave you in control of the military?" Half-hidden anger darkened his face.

"No, it'll leave you in power with strong wins under your belt early in your term. Grant is his own man. A superb man. The military are lazy and corrupt. They're a festering problem requiring surgery. This deal solves two problems at once."

After speaking, she extended her hand to Carl. His expression sagged. Slowly, he reached for her palm.

They shook, and she said, "We're agreed then. My people will call at four tomorrow morning. Speed is critical. Let's get this wrapped up within ten days. Thank you for your time, Carl. I can see myself out."

***

Two chopper pilots sat on their helmets, chatting as they smoked. As Katharine approached, they stood, flicked their cigarettes on the lawn, donned their head gear, and climbed into their respective cockpits. The engines whined a moment later, and the blades spun up.

Midway between the choppers and the mansion, Grant grabbed Katharine's arm gently. "Democracy is bigger than anyone. I won't be your puppet."

She stopped. "I'd expect nothing less from you, Grant. That's why it must be you." Her eyes locked onto his. "Never repeat what I'm about to say."

"Understood."

"The Strat servers will collapse within two months, most likely six weeks. Since late last year, we've had cascading computer fallouts. Until now, the techies could patch them. These solutions are temporary. Some point soon the servers coming offline will hit a critical mass, and the whole edifice will fold."

She sighed and gazed at Carl's mansion. "After that, the future's a mystery. For decades, people lived a narcissist's dream. The StratBots never ask for compromise, reciprocation, or loyalty. They give unconditionally. I dread the world that awaits us in the months following the Strat collapse. Worse yet, print supply is almost exhausted. There's little to scrounge. When that's finished, so are we."

Her head dropped, and her tone became hollow. "In desperation, I sent a rare ambitious man to find the BQCs. I fear he's a poor choice, but I couldn't afford to release you." A moment's pause followed. "Sometimes I think my father is right, we must go backward to progress. But that's academic. I have the present to wrangle."

Her eyes rose, and she switched to her business tone. "Yes, you'll report to the government, not me. But you can listen without compromising integrity. Whichever way this plays out, there are two standout risks. When the Strat crashes, dream worlds will vanish. People will focus on print. Once the smarter individuals discover it's almost exhausted, anarchy will follow. Nearby towns will detect weakness and, sensing Armageddon, they'll attack us. We must prepare for this external risk. Internally, the strong will attempt to exploit the weak. The biggest threat is the army. You must move swiftly to remove the corrupt leadership. Start now, before Carl stuffs this up."

"It'd make things easier if I accessed all senior military staff's Strat profiles. So I could use blackmail rather than violence."

"Impossible. The Strat's security is impregnable, even for me."

In the past, many struggled to understand Katharine's politics. She removed anonymity from the Strat. People couldn't hide behind avatars. Some considered this an attack on civil rights. Yet she also proved a staunch defender of Strat users' privacy. PedCom fought numerous court battles where the government in particular placed them under enormous pressure to disclose personal information. She deployed sophisticated technical and legal steps to protect privacy. When that failed, she used good old-fashioned blackmail. If anyone else were CEO, chances were the Strat would've become a source of intelligence for public servants and big business.

Her position was simple; for individuals, accountability trumped privacy. However, for organizations, maintaining privacy _was_ the responsibility. As she viewed it, this approach checked power's corruption. Individuals couldn't hurt others by hiding behind anonymity, and organizations couldn't subjugate citizens by using personal information as a weapon. However, many simply saw it as a mechanism for Katharine to concentrate power.

She straightened. "Maybe my father's a dreamer, and I'm a pragmatist. But some roads shouldn't be traveled, regardless of the destination. You must follow the hard path, Grant."

# Chapter 11 – Sentient Risk

May 16, 2057, 8:00 a.m. – Galveston Island

Brenna's mood darkened as she trod the long path towards the professor's house. Wind-swept sand drifts swallowed the old highway every hundred yards, a dotted line cut through a barren landscape. The road reached out to a horizon that appeared flat and featureless aside from abandoned buildings that clustered a mile to her right. To her left, the breeze carried the ocean's sounds, rhythmic waves crashing on a distant beach.

A mind-numbing desire for human contact tugged against her happiness. She loved the professor but needed more. In a self-perpetuating downward spiral, withdrawal fed loneliness, but social isolation diminished her ability to engage with others.

The dilemma wasn't lost on Brenna. Momentarily, she questioned why she'd resisted the professor. After all, he'd only requested she spend time with Trevor. Logical as ever, she devised two possibilities. Either meeting new people made her anxious, or the apprehension Trevor evoked was valid. Her reaction felt rational when the Professor first raised Trevor. He was a nutcase, end of story. Now she became uncertain. Perhaps she was afraid. But why?

The BQC project's enormity required research and development partnerships. But skill and aptitude were in short supply, and those who met the selection criteria were largely similar to Trevor. Externally, they appeared normal. But like a stale biscuit, a bad aftertaste remained, something odd that evaded description.

After three miles spent mulling her dilemma, her gaze lifted from the ground and away from her thoughts. Her eyes traced a giant industrial printer's outline silhouetted against the horizon, its stacks reaching skyward. The planet's only living printer, hidden from the world on a remote island by distance and a permanent brown haze.

It seemed immoral that they owned the sole functional printer while survivors battled for leftover print. The shortages caused much suffering and death. Before self-loathing gripped, her thoughts shifted. _Humanity created this mess with printers. It must earn the right to use them again._ She stared at the printer in anger. _Yes, but what about me?_

As she neared it, she reconciled those feelings. _Achievement requires compromise._ With the familiar battle finished, she examined the mechanical goliath. The morning sun laid bare every blemish. Rusted industry. Strangely beautiful.

Three giant fans pulled air from the atmosphere into the printer's belly. Below, an army of driverless trucks returned in a long convey, carrying soil, garbage, and scrap metal. They dumped their load onto a conveyor belt and drove away to refill.

The belt rocked and bumped over hundreds of rollers suspended by steel girders, each one raised a little higher. At the conveyor's end sat a huge hopper, the printer's mouth. A continuous stream of resources spilled into its jaws. The pile collapsed sporadically as hydraulic arms drew material into its digestive system.

Deep inside the printer an almost magical transformation occurred. After it ate everything, it boiled, burnt, melted, dissolved, and ground its food until it excreted the metals, elements and plastics it needed to build things. Raw materials, including air, went in one end, and choppers came out the other, three a month at the current rate. It also produced another thing in large volumes, pollution. High above the mechanical monster, its stacks billowed continuous clouds of toxic waste.

The printer was always about the BQCs. Without it, it would've been impossible to build the other Bio-Quantum Computers in the professor's lifetime. When they completed the first BQC in 2050, 'Michelangelo,' they used it to cure nearby smaller but serviceable printers of the Printer Killer Virus, immediately tasking them to create an industrial printer.

Michelangelo's design endowed it with deep logical skill. Where Nostradamus's processes focused predominately on probability, Michelangelo took a more mechanistic approach, forensically dissecting the chain of cause and effect.

The professor named the second BQC 'the Chairman,' after Chairman Mao. The Chairman would transform Michelangelo's plans into reality. Although Nostradamus could predict near future events, inevitably, it'd have to resolve outcomes that transpired despite their low likelihood of occurrence. The cascading impact of the complex interrelationship between compounding probability curves rendered long-term predictions much less reliable, and at an exponential rate.

Consequently, the Chairman needed the ability to decide wisely in a dynamic environment. To achieve this, the professor divided the Chairman's 'brain' into two hemispheres. He maintained all equations were reducible to a unity and contradiction of opposites. Together, the hemispheres resolved this dichotomy, literally.

They required all three BQCs to plan, build, and control the nanobots. In turn, the nanobots promised humanity a divine gift, the ability to shortcut a millions year's evolution by bridging the gap between individual and communal learning. When one person learned, so would everyone else.

This was the vision in which Brenna invested. Like the professor, she believed humanity's failures were a product of technological revolution outstripping social development. The nanobots would restore balance.

But she didn't build hope on faith. When they first began work on Michelangelo twelve years ago, the planned specifications exceeded any rational objective. It didn't worry her then. Even in 2048, success's likelihood appeared remote. The technical challenge seemed insurmountable. War raged around them. The air threatened to choke them. Everything was in short supply. She focused on the process, not the goal. The endeavor provided meaning in the midst of anarchy.

Surrounded by death, working on the project became a private act of resistance against chaos. However, as Michelangelo progressed and test results kept returning within tolerances, Brenna faced a question that previously lurked in the shadows. Was this a good idea?

She worried they might create a potentially uncontrollable monster, one that'd consume humanity. Michelangelo's potential computational capacity staggered imagination, an ability that transcended comprehension. Math defined its capabilities. But beyond abstract numbers, the limits of its intellectual power remained unfathomable. They might as well try to imagine where the universe ended.

In early 2049, after worrying for eleven months, she finally asked the professor. It seemed stupid to doubt the project's validity after working on it thirteen days a fortnight, fourteen hours a day, year after year. But the question nagged her. Its importance grew with each test passed. Once the work congealed to the point of no return, where completion only hinged on piecing together the known, the BQC's success was inevitable. After this, worry stole her sleep.

Finally, one cold afternoon when her silence became intolerable, she'd asked, "Fahim, what happens when it's switched on?"

"Nothing."

"How can you be certain?"

The professor paused and then turned to a metal cabinet. He rifled through drawers and retrieved a camera, which he held aloft as if clutching a great prize. "Take this camera for example. Let's imagine it takes perfect images, resolved to an individual atom. Pretend it captures an infinite number of photos. It'd be quite a camera. But could it ever ascribe meaning to its pictures? Do the images transcend their two dimensions? No, of course not.

"No matter how wonderful this camera, it's still a camera. Michelangelo's situation is similar, except instead of taking pictures, it'll be solving problems. Will Michelangelo ever find meaning in its activities? The answer is undoubtedly no. Our brain's chemicals create a dynamic environment that's quite different to Michelangelo's brain."

"Yes, I understand, Fahim. But I can't accept there's zero chance of self-awareness emerging, particularly given their integration with the Strat and nanobots."

"There's no risk. At best, the BQC will take snapshots. It can't ascribe meaning to them. It'll simply collect data and conduct analysis on information it finds meaningless. Meaning will be meaningless to Michelangelo."

She crossed her arms and frowned.

The professor sighed then added, "We'll employ safeguards. The biggest risk is that a complete mapping of an individual's brain in real time may provide the seed self-awareness needs to grow. We simply won't do this... It's unnecessary. We can safely do all the behavioral modeling via the Strat. For the nanobots we can run snapshot data."

She raised an eyebrow. The professor offered another assurance. "We can also set up mechanical protections...such as explosives on the power supply."

She smiled. "Good. Remember, the point is to save humanity, not replace it."

That was eight years ago.

As Brenna continued walking to the professor's home, she contemplated her concerns. Events proved the professor correct. There was no risk, no super computer deciding to end civilization, just an obedient servant, albeit the most powerful one created in the entire planet's history.

It still puzzled her how self-awareness couldn't spontaneously emerge, given the BQCs' power and architecture. But they were not self-aware. Besides, it didn't matter.

People don't need a supercomputer to destroy humanity. They are quite capable of doing it themselves.

***

The professor sat on his front porch, cup of tea in hand. With a light breeze in his face and his second most treasured person visiting soon, life couldn't be better in that moment. He realized that feeling would desert him shortly but pretended it'd never end.

When he saw Brenna's figure flicker in the heat haze, his mood slid. A knot grew in his chest until she'd reached his house. Dust kicked up under her boots as she strode up the path. Even from a distance, her expression betrayed deep thought. After a few pleasantries, she leaped straight to the point. "What was all that about needing ten thousand megawatts of power for sixty days?"

He lowered his tea and considered his words. "While you were in Waltham, I ran the numbers. They didn't come out... They weren't satisfactory..."

"What, the nanobots failed?"

"No, they functioned flawlessly. I was sure they'd be the failure point...if one existed. But they perform precisely to specifications. They achieved what we hoped, enabling individuals to become experts in any field they choose. The delivery mechanism works perfectly, and the model predicted zero failures. We couldn't have obtained better test results."

"I don't understand. What's the issue?"

"The problem is people..."

She reclined in her chair, her face contorted in confusion.

"Transforming individuals into super-humans was never sufficient. The point was to pull humanity from the brink of self-destruction." He sighed and sipped his tea. "I asked Nostradamus to harvest sociological and psychological data from the Strat and combine this with historical datasets collected and cleaned by the Chairman. Then Nostradamus modeled the decades following nanobot integration. The simulation didn't run long. Within three months, the human race ushered its own extinction."

"What do you mean? I don't understand?"

"If we release these nanobots and activate them all simultaneously, which is entirely possible, it'll lead to an exponential growth of violence, decimating the entire population... All our work is wasted. I'm sorry..."

Color drained from her face. White and drawn, she deflated. Her eyes darted. "It doesn't make sense."

"I hoped it was a matter of choice. Perhaps they must earn such a gift. That's why I asked for electrical power."

"You held the conference for a hoax?"

"No, an experiment. I thought a common goal would change their collective psychology. On arriving home, Nostradamus had already run the updated numbers on the audience that returned to the Strat following my lecture... Nothing changed. The Strat is humanity's cancer. It's now inoperable."

"It was all a scam?" she whispered.

"No. No," he pleaded. She refused to look at him. "We offered everyone the power to become the best of themselves. Together, society could've solved any technical, social, political, or environmental problem. I honestly believed some would follow me. But they didn't. Instead of utopia, we created the ultimate doomsday device."

Her eyes welled with tears. "But we've worked so hard."

"It seems humanity is beyond saving, at least by technology. That leaves only three other options, a political solution, a military solution, and a social revolution. My daughter hit a political dead end decades ago, though she's unprepared to accept defeat. You can't manage narcissism. It can't be reformed or tamed. It must be surgically removed. Like a cancer."

"What will we do?" She started to cry.

"I don't know... I don't know," the professor mumbled.

"The computers could clean the air?"

An empty expression washed over him. "The planet will heal itself within two hundred thousand years. Not even a cosmic blink. If humanity can't correct its mistakes, when the task has never been easier, then we'd only delay the inevitable."

They sat in gloomy silence.

Five minutes later the professor added, "We'll stop printing StratSuits now. It's all ending anyway. Katharine said the servers are almost finished, they have another month or two, maybe."

"What if we solve the nanobot integration? We can't administer them without the Strat."

"There's no solution. I guess evolution takes time for a reason. Though it'll be too slow to save us. It's hopeless."

Brenna sobbed. The professor muttered, "I'm a fool. Just an old fool."

# Chapter 12 – The Road to Waltham

May 19, 2057, 2:30 p.m. – Allston

Dread weighed heavier on Nancy as the day progressed. Her brave front evaporated. Over the years, so many had died purchasing. But when she tried to remember their faces, she couldn't. With each person she attempted to recall, her expression screwed tighter. Only vague features came to mind. So she focused instead on anything unique, dirty jeans, a scar, big frizzy hair. She grabbed a finger for each individual recollected. When she looked down and realized she'd moved to her second hand, the color drained from her cheeks.

This is stupid anyway. I can't win. If I fail, I've died. If I succeed, Robert will make me a full-time purchaser.

Life inside Nancy's hometown fortifications may have been an unbearable straight jacket. However, the world beyond the walls raged unchecked, brutal, and uncaring. The stage remained eternally primed for violence. Whatever the town leader's style, print was scarce, residents barely trusted each other, and everyone saw travelers as open game. No matter how deep her boredom, it terrified her to contemplate leaving Allston unescorted.

She lumbered towards the stables. Her shoulders drooped, her head hung low. On arrival, she dropped her gear on the heavy pine table. With everything laid out, she checked each item in turn, her rifle, water bottles, knife, map, compass, and the case of ammunition she'd use for payment. The preparation didn't improve her outlook. It provided no greater sense of control.

The horse whinnied, demanding attention. She stroked its muzzle. "Be patient." The aroma of manure and decomposing straw filled the air, sweet and sickly. In a dark corner, an old leather saddle lay slumped over hardwood stable boards. The color of toffee left to weather. When she removed it, the animal became excited, expecting an outing.

Ten minutes later, she finished rigging the horse. In the stable's far end, she dragged the canvas away to reveal two aluminum carts. A minimalist design, a box joined to an axle by a spring shock absorber. It all rolled on thin wheels that exaggerated every contour they passed over. Gripping the closest cart's tow point, she heaved until, after much grunting, it dislodged from its narrow confinement and wheeled freely. Next, she guided the stallion back and rigged it to the harness.

With everything set, she grabbed the rifle she'd left on the bench, pushed it into the saddle's holster, loaded the remaining gear in the cart, and pulled herself up into the saddle. At 2:50 p.m. she headed off.

As she passed Admin, she heard Robert screaming at the girls. "Every other town boss works from the Strat. The first time I try, I get dragged into this stinking piss hole by Vincent, whining you girls hadn't reported for garden duty. This shouldn't be my problem. Triple duties for the next six days."

"That's twenty-one hours a day!" The girls sounded like a shrill choir.

Their voices disappeared in the growing distance. She chuckled to herself. _They deserved that!_

Nancy rode through the southern gate, past the nonchalant wave from the duty guard. Hooves clopped melodically. Soon, stunted plants narrowed the path. The horse weaved through the trees and shrubs that'd erupted from below the bitumen road.

Rain and sporadic creek flows had washed much of the surface away. Huge sinkholes appeared every few miles. Eroded clay walls slid to muddy water. Rusted cars, half-decayed timber, house roofs, and all other rubbish lifted by local floods and dumped randomly as the water receded. Nature softened the spectacle. Vines and grasses clamored over the debris, anchoring it to the earth. Everything conspired to slow the cart.

Pollution made the air thick and sour. It rasped Nancy's throat, itching with each breath. With only a wet handkerchief for a filter, being outside quickly sapped her energy. At first she focused exclusively on threats. In the choking air, she scanned the environment; her head swiveled constantly, her left hand holding the reins, the right the stock of her holstered rifle.

When she reached a hilltop four miles from town, she turned for one last look. From afar, the car-wall appeared solid, a monolithic barrier that hugged Allston's outskirts.

Marauders patrolled the town's boundary irregularly, where they sought easy prey. The threat made life behind the walls infinitely safer. The risk faded with the distance, as if illusionary. Now, Allston looked like a toy town, nothing serious.

Yet danger imprisoned her. Everyone else escaped, if only to the Strat. Denied the freedom others enjoyed, she'd become resentful. She resented the girls. She resented Robert for the lonely, numbing duties. And she resented the town's people for their disinterest. More than anything, she especially resented Logan.

Until that moment, her emotion's origins remained an ignored mystery. However, as she contemplated her contempt, it appeared illogical. Not only was Logan generous in spirit, but they barely saw each other. Months would pass in succession without meeting. Yet, her resentment had fixated on Logan.

Occasionally, their duties crossed. One encounter particularly stuck in Nancy's mind. The night was still and black. Like an apparition, Logan appeared from a blue fog, illuminated by a gate light that rendered her dress translucent. A boney shadow, frail, seemingly bordering on death, ambled toward her. The vision had made her gasp. For a moment, she believed she'd seen a ghost, a creature that'd returned to repay her cruel words. But that moment disappeared almost on arrival, and when their paths intersected, Logan had smiled briefly whilst Nancy responded with her customary sarcastic snort.

A smile meant a lot. Nancy understood that. Most people interacted with the reserved impatience of someone forced to attend a gathering they'd rather avoid. The smiles, if given, flickered in short labored gestures. Discussion was functional and direct.

Logan differed in that respect. _Similar to the gimp._ She considered her girlfriends' behaviors were also unique. Yet it was a shallow distinction. The girls extended their circle of themselves to each other, but together, they resembled everyone else: rude, boring, sullen, and disinterested.

Every minute Nancy spent in the town seemed like an unnamed malignant force placing another pebble on her chest. They piled up, day after day, without caring if she'd cope. Some days she thought she'd scream, run around, and rip down everything in frustration.

Emotionless people surrounded her, suffocating her with boredom. Only her art provided relief, pictures painted on t-shirts. No one cared for it. Once her friends asked, "Why are you doing that? Log on the Strat instead." She ignored them. In those moments, their ignorance melted into irrelevance. Creativity helped her escape. And when she created something beautiful, the escape felt permanent. But freedom never stayed long.

Now, however, as the horse trundled along and Allston receded, Nancy experienced real freedom for the first time, freedom from the town. In that moment, she realized the answer. She understood why she resented Logan. She despised the unconditional love she gave her son.

Ten years ago, she lost her family when Allston razed her hometown during the fighting that followed the Printer Killer Virus. Every town had turned on each other. The viciousness escalated, only ending after the death toll brought humanity into equilibrium with the remaining print: scrounged stockpiles of goods produced when printers still functioned.

Violence had swept through the world without shame or pause. In its wake lay a barren landscape largely emptied of people. Survival drew the remnant populations together as if pulled by gravity. In the aftermath, small clusters of towns hung onto life. They eked out an existence and survived by trade networks patched with brittle alliances.

She remembered little, and the bits she recalled seemed detached, like a dream's memory, not even the dream itself. She'd lost her mother and her baby sister. The event's enormity should've been unforgettable. Yet until now, she couldn't remember considering them.

As the stallion's hooves clopped on crumbling concrete and tar, Allston faded farther into the distance. She eyed the horizon, and the clutter colonizing her mind retreated. In the silence new thoughts blossomed. The memory of her family became important. Hard as she tried, their faces and voices eluded her. No physical details to describe them. Like ghosts that never existed. But she knew different. Even without the memories to anchor her emotions, it felt she'd lost them anew.

With no ability or desire to control herself, Nancy sobbed. Heavy gasping highlighted her tears. She cried for ages, and by its end, when her breathing became normal, a weight lifted. A sense of gratefulness rose, gentle and soothing. Though why crying helped confused her.

A genuine, candid smile arrived like a stranger. Unforced, without agenda or malice, an expression born from appreciation, not survival. As she enjoyed its peace, she noticed her environment. Shrubs and vines smothered long abandoned buildings. She marveled that people once inhabited the dwellings. Someone once attended their needs. The owners would definitely not allow a tree to grow inside the house. At least not so big it burst through the roof. She scanned the street's length. So many houses, now empty. Impossible to imagine the number of individuals required to fill them.

Some buildings appeared to be shops once. She'd read about specialized permanent markets. Places where people traded anything and everything. An endless supply of stuff.

They differed from the pictures. Their front windows were missing. Inside, straggling, light-starved vines, shrubs, and grasses took hold wherever sunshine and rain reached a small pocket. Gunshot holes littered the walls. Ransacked shelves and broken furniture lay partially hidden by the patchwork overgrowth.

Most shop signs were too dilapidated and sun-bleached to read. But ahead in bold clear letters, she saw the word "Cakes." _Cakes! Imagine that!_ Fragments of memory came to her, only to disappear as she grasped them. Nancy remembered the cakes though, her mother baking them, her licking the bowl, icing the cake, light fluffy sweetness, and her mother smiling back at her.

Tears filled her eyes again as she recalled an embrace, a sense of belonging, of safety and permanence. Emotions she'd long forgotten.

After she glanced at her watch, she decided time allowed her to investigate the shop. Irrationally, she hoped at least one cake waited for her. Not to eat, just to gaze upon. There were none.

Broken and decaying cabinets littered the shop, the evidence of their ancient purpose eroded. Behind the cabinet though, much to Nancy's delight, she saw a battered advertising board. She wiped the heavy dust off, revealing photos of cupcakes. Although faded, she could still imagine their vibrant colors. _Cupcakes!_ Just like the ones she recollected. Tears streamed down her cheeks again as she whispered, "I miss you, Mom."

# Chapter 13 – Starvation

May 19, 2057, 4:00 p.m. – Allston

Logan shuffled to her kitchen, austere and clean. An open bench, simple and uncluttered, and a table made from fence palings nailed to fruit crates.

On the bench sat an old desktop 3D printer, the kind that produced basic meals. It stopped working on 1 March 2047 after it downloaded the Printer Killer Virus during a scheduled software update. She traced her fingers over its sleek exterior and toggled the power switch with her bony hands. Lifeless, but she expected that.

As she stared at the cold, useless object, she wondered why she brought it with her two years ago on that blustery night when she escaped Waltham. The town's vile predators had made life unbearable. So she fled in darkness, banging on Allston's gate hours later, knowing Gus would help.

The cart she'd dragged contained her son, a few miserable possessions, and this printer. Precious space and energy spent towing it from Waltham. _For what purpose?_ The answer didn't come, and the question's relevance waned.

From the kitchen, she moved to the bedroom and disrobed. Here she selected a clean, presentable dress from her wardrobe, originally emerald green, faded by time to jade. She laid it carefully on her bed, smoothing it down. Once satisfied, she walked to the art deco plywood dresser.

The corner peeled, revealing a cheap boxwood internal frame. The lifeless remains of a makeup kit scattered across the top, blush, brushes, and lipsticks. Three shades of red thinly smeared inside empty clear plastic covers. Slowly, her hand drifted over the items. Nothing to scrounge. So she turned to the full-length mirror.

A close-up of a dull, sunken portrait greeted her, framed by dark lines. The vision softened somewhat by low light and the mottled patches that grew in size towards the mirror's edge, where the silver backing had delaminated. She pinched her cheeks, trying to draw color to her pale face.

She picked up a brush and pulled dry, matted hair from the teeth. Across the sparse room, beside her single bed, lay an aluminum trash basket. The electric blue paint crazed and faded. Finished with cleaning, she binned the unwanted waste. When she returned her gaze to the mirror, from the increased distance, she saw her full figure. The naked bony stranger held her attention until the sight of her breathing broke the spell.

In the silence, she dragged the comb through her thinning strawberry blond hair. With slow deliberate strokes, she continued, until it sat smooth and flat against her skull.

After dressing, she checked her five-year-old son, Ryan. When she opened his bedroom door, he looked up from his toy train. Lazy brown curls and a chuckling grin. "Play trains with me, Mommy."

For an hour she played. With the earnest seriousness of a United Nations ambassador, he elucidated the rules, which evolved throughout their game. At the end, Logan rose and said, "Sorry, darling. I must go to work early. Tonight you'll have to tuck yourself in bed. Can you be a big boy for me?"

"Yes, Mommy."

After she closed the bedroom door, she lingered briefly, palm rested on the handle as she listened to him play. A minute later, she left.

At 6:00 p.m. her twelve-hour guard duty started. The watch read 5:30 p.m. Enough time to negotiate with Robert.

Normally he'd be in the Strat and unreachable until the following morning. But she knew he worked late today. This meant he'd probably be cranky and unlikely to help. Earlier she'd almost called it off. Upon seeing her ribs' sharp edges protrude through her gaunt skin, her mind changed. If she didn't find the courage to confront him now, she might never act. The thought provided focus, and she stood at the threshold, straightened her posture, and held it for a minute while she attempted to create confidence from thin air.

With precise, measured steps, she departed. Poise abandoned her after a few yards as her mind raced over the possible outcomes. A bad situation could always be made worse. The weight of each worry bowed her head farther. She had reached the point of canceling her planned confrontation when, as she looked up, she realized she'd arrived at Admin.

Six years ago, she wouldn't have cared. Six years ago, she'd have demanded what was due. Damn the consequences. But now that she was responsible for her child's welfare, duty eclipsed pride. Beg, borrow, steal, lie, intimidate, seduce—she didn't care. Whatever needed doing, she'd do it. Nothing else mattered. Yet that was the problem. She didn't know what to do. Action didn't worry her. Rather, she feared making the wrong choice.

_I'm here now. Go in._ Admin loomed above. In a decisive sweeping movement, her hand lifted to knock. But she froze when her knuckles reached the metal. She lowered her hand and retreated down the steps. At the bottom she halted, statuesque, caught in loops of indecision. _I must._ The thought stuck. She spun, marched up the stairs, and pounded the door three times.

A voice boomed from inside. "Come in."

A green button contained within a clear waterproof housing sat on the doorframe. After she pushed it, the external door unlocked, and she stepped into the airlock. The door shut, and hissing followed as the system evacuated the polluted air. Finally, the internal door opened.

In front of her stood Robert, his arms crossed. "Yes. What?"

She shuffled forward. Her mouth moved, but no sounds escaped.

"Say something or go." Two seconds later, he stamped over to her and hit a large green button beside the entrance, reopening the inside exit. Scowling, he motioned for her to leave.

She stammered, her words whispered in a meek plea. "I've labored for years. Never missed a duty or argued."

"Yes, and...?"

"You should pay me at least half rations." Her head lowered.

"Why?"

"Because I work hard."

"Anyone can do your job."

"Yes, but I'm doing it," she said, raising her eyes to his. The response came sharper than she intended, and she deflated as she watched his arms fold tighter. Success hinged on the right words and tone, and she struggled to find them. With great meekness, she said, "My son is turning six soon, and he needs food to grow, real nutrition. My health is failing too. We're close to starvation."

"I gave you the night duty so you could be with your child. It was difficult to meet such an unreasonable request. You're already living beyond your entitlements."

"But no one else wants that shift. Then or now..."

"Are you arguing with me?"

"No, no. I'm grateful. We simply need more food. I'm anxious about my son's health."

"Your son isn't my problem."

"But he's only a child."

"He's yours, and it's your choice to keep him. We're not responsible for your choices, any more than you manage mine. If you don't like it, leave."

"We've nowhere else to go... I'm just asking for enough nutrition to survive, I beg you." Head lowered, she shuffled to him. One foot short, she dropped to her knees and pleaded, "I'll do anything you want, anything."

Disgusted, he stepped away and shoved her in a single motion. The force sent her sprawling on her back. Eyes swollen with tears, she looked up and begged, "I don't have enough to feed him. Please, I'll do longer duties."

"Don't feed him then. If watching him starve bothers you, we can chuck him out the gate. You'll never see him again. You should do that. Everyone else does."

"A child? Where's your humanity?"

"What makes you so special? Every newcomer starts at the bottom."

"How can the town let him starve? There's plenty to eat."

Robert's lieutenant, Samantha, interrupted, indignant. "Excuse me! You're not entitled to anything. Why should I care for your child when I already spend many hours every day looking after orphans?"

"Orphans?"

"Yes, orphans. I support over one hundred children."

Confusion etched Logan's expression. "Here in the town? There're no other children... You don't mean the Strat... do you? You can't possibly mean the Strat?"

Samantha stared at Logan with blank unblinking eyes. Initially, words escaped Logan, until urgency forced her to push on. "The Strat isn't real, you can't be serious... There are no actual children there. My real child is starving... I beg you—"

"Get out now, or leave this town forever," Robert yelled and slammed a yellow button, and the external door swung open. "You have fifteen-hour shifts, every day, until further notice." Red-faced, he kicked Logan in the backside.

Slumped on her stomach, she clawed at the floor and dragged herself forward, too weak to lift herself. Heavy boots marched towards her. Shocked, she felt the ground fall away. She dangled under his grip. Five seconds later, her arms scrambled at air as he tossed her outside Admin. The door shut behind her.

Motionless, she lay flat on the asphalt. Years ago, the humiliation would have suffocated her. Now it meant nothing except that she'd failed her son. As hopeless thoughts spiraled through her mind, she wished for the briefest moment death would find her where she slumped. Then she remembered duty, and guilt replaced despair.

With a heavy head, she gazed up at the approaching noise. Through vision blurred by tears, she saw a man stride towards her. Until he spoke, she didn't recognize him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Trevor?" she said.

# Chapter 14 – Bandits

May 19, 2057, 4:28 p.m. – Nearing Waltham

Nancy wiped the tears from her face, climbed back on her horse, and continued the journey to Waltham. For the remaining ride, she absorbed the sights, soaking up her newfound freedom from Allston. Her smile stayed until she reached the imposing pillboxes that flanked either side of Waltham's primary entrance.

"Hello?" she yelled.

Silence.

The Waltham gate straddled the "Main Street" bridge, named so by someone bereft of creative faculties. A railway line cut under the overpass. The silver tracks turned to rust just beyond the diesel locomotive that poked out below the road, on her left-hand side. To her right, fifty yards farther along the track, five flatcar carriages rested uncoupled from the engine. Four had plate metal sides designed to protect a machine gun nest that fired through a long narrow slot. On the last carriage sat a two-inch cannon, salvaged from an old Navy patrol boat.

While waiting for a response she observed the duty crew work the weapon. The men squabbled; arms waved and fingers stabbed at chests. Three walked off, their hands flung in the air. They joined another man seated on a gravel pile who gnawed a shank of blackened meat. A short tussle followed, and the big man stole the smaller man's meal. A tall man, seemingly the boss, threw threats laced with swearing in their direction. The thieves returned to the cannon where they pushed and heaved at handles welded to its side plates. It creaked and groaned and rotated slowly.

After the gun swiveled through thirty degrees, one man jumped down and ran away while the remaining men stuck their fingers in their ears. Seconds later, a thunderous crack and shockwave followed. Nancy's stallion rose on its hind legs and whinnied. A mile off, a grove of pine trees exploded into kindling and dust.

Pain stabbed her head as it rung. The men's wildly gesticulating arms indicated they still argued. But the show bored her now, and the animal needed reassurance. So she dismounted and patted the beast. "Shh, it's okay."

Once the animal calmed and her hearing returned, she refocused on the gate. "Anyone there?"

A sullen voice responded, "What do ya want?"

"You're kidding? Didn't you hear me earlier? Did you sit there staring at me?"

"And?"

"I'm here to purchase a heater. I'm Nancy, from Allston."

"Wait here."

Nancy heard mumbles followed by silence. She glanced at her watch, 4:57 p.m. _Three minutes early_. She felt like an idiot waiting by the gate while a guard hidden in the pillbox presumably studied her through a rifle slot. She tried to fill time without appearing awkward.

After a quarter hour passed, she called again, "What's happening?" No one replied.

"Hello, are you still there?" Nancy yelled.

"Of course I am."

"Well, answer me."

"I told you. Wait here."

"I've already waited too long."

"Waltham's big. Joe will take a bit."

"Can't someone else do the trade?"

"Dunno."

"Can you find out?"

"Na."

"Fuck you. I arrived on time. This is rude."

"Hold up, he'll get 'er soon."

Nancy fidgeted for half an hour before protesting again.

At 5:45 p.m. she quit and remounted. She'd swung the cart around when a gruff man shouted behind her. "Where are you going?"

She ignored him. The voice yelled louder, "Joe's on his way. He'll be 'er in ten, I promise. Don't leave yet."

After she stopped the horse, she paused to consider the situation. Since arrival, she'd resolved a dozen times to depart. Once the animal turned with the reins, commitment followed. However, she'd traveled so far. It seemed silly to retreat now. The thought of returning to Allston empty-handed, to Robert's criticisms, swayed her decision. Nevertheless, as she circled back for the gate, she suspected she allowed her ego to dictate her decision, a poor one at that.

Allston was safe, but purchasers enjoyed freedom. Safety without purpose had become intolerable. _I must be a purchaser, and purchasers deliver._

She yelled to the hidden guard, "Okay, but if he's even one second longer, I'm going. Clear?"

"Yes."

At nine minutes and fifty seconds, a heavy motor started, and the gate opened. A bus's rear became visible. The vehicle was the doorway, plate metal bolted to its side.

A grizzled Joe appeared from behind the corroded school bus.

"Missy, I'm very sorry to be late. I've been a runnin' to gets to you."

"Just finish the trade."

"But of course, of course, that's all I wants."

The corner of her mouth curled in disgust.

"Yes, missy. It's I, Joe, the ugly one. Too ugly to behold." The smell of rotten cabbages and old socks hovered around him.

"Soap would fix that. When did you last bathe? You disgusting man."

He ignored her. "Loadin' won't be easy. We've work to do, missy."

"Whatever!"

The trollish man waddled to her horse. With a grin bordering on a snarl, he glared up at her. The stallion's height offered an illusion of superiority. But staring down, she felt like she'd lowered herself into old bathwater, browned from a thousand washes.

Eyes locked on Nancy, he jerked at the animal's noseband. Its tail clamped against its backside, and it snorted.

"Hey, asshole, don't hurt my horse."

"Sorry, missy, just checkin it."

Disbelief and revulsion wrote large in her expression. He released the bridle and walked around the animal. Her head followed him. When he jumped in the cart she yelled, "What are you doing?"

"I'm not walking. You need to go to the town's center. I'll direct you."

The open gate loomed ahead. Beyond it, through the narrow view, Waltham lay hidden in shadows, behind the hill's crest. For a while, she attempted to visualize what waited past the thin slot that'd opened, unwilling to move. When Joe threatened to leave, she flicked the reins.

The beast pulled her through the entry. Above her, the arm of an old crane spanned the gap. She remained fixed on the rusted tube metal structure. Its shadow moved over her, falling behind as they entered Waltham proper. Her head swiveled, tracking it, until she looked backward, twisted in the saddle.

The bus started, and the wall, gate, and gantry became one again, a dark barricade that extinguished the external world. It hugged the earth in either direction and disappeared with the miles. As Waltham's entrance fell behind them her head dropped as if tied by a ghostly thread to her now invisible exit, until her sight intersected with Joe's grin. It appeared he'd stared at her the whole time and didn't possess the shame to pretend otherwise. She shuddered and returned her attention to the path ahead.

Waltham looked worse than Allston. Rot permeated everything. Its scent lingered in the air, decayed flesh and roaches.

They passed a half-plowed open field. A dead horse lay still rigged to the plow near the rusted barbed wire fence that defined the paddock's edge. Farther in, twenty women worked, their arms swung in wide arcs as they sunk picks into hard ground. A slow rhythm of grinding work. Two men rested on seats nearby while another walked up and down the line of females, cracking a whip periodically.

At the field's corner, Joe directed Nancy to turn right into a short road leading to an open warehouse.

"It's in here, missy."

The heater itself was a standard print item that could produce fifty thousand gallons per hour of boiling water. Most towns retrofitted them to the town water supply. A single heater was easier to run and maintain than hundreds of individual units. Despite its power, it only weighed 220 pounds.

She dismounted and tested it. Alligator clips connected according to her diagram, the palm-sized device indicated it passed the tests. She retrieved the ammo box from the cart and thrust it into Joe's arms. "Here's your payment. Now load the heater."

He dropped the crate on the dry grass and extended his hand. "First shake for the deal, missy."

"Forget it. Enough bullshit. Just do your job."

"Your cussin doesn't help, missy."

She challenged him with her death stare. He smiled. After she failed to make him capitulate, she focused on the heater again, circling it, searching for clues as how best to load it. When her attention returned to Joe, she caught him scowling at her, an expression that morphed into a toothless grin.

"Roll it up," she snapped.

After she positioned behind the cart and instructed him to follow, she leaned into the heater and yelled, "Okay, push." Back muscles strained, but it only budged an inch and then rolled down. Joe's end didn't seem to move at all.

"Are you even pushing?"

"Yes, missy. Very hard, missy."

"Well, go harder... Idiot!"

For ten minutes, she continued shoving. Sweat flowed down her forehead; her heels dug into the earth. She grunted until she sagged. Renewed effort only caused her feet to slip, and her shoulders fell. Finally, she collapsed behind the heater.

Suspicious, she eyed Joe, who didn't appear to have expended any energy.

"We need help. Can you please get someone to help?"

"But of course, missy," he replied and then disappeared. Half an hour passed. Her anxiety grew. Sunset was due soon. If they'd loaded the heater on their first attempt, she'd have completed the journey's worst section before twilight became darkness. That opportunity expired.

At seven, Nancy gazed at the bright red sky; the sun touched the horizon. Her head spun, all the trouble she'd faced swamping her mind like screeching bats. _This isn't worth my life._ But when she reached the point of decision, Joe reappeared with improbable timing as she mounted the horse.

"Stop, missy. I've help. We'll get this heater loaded now."

Another man in a similar filthy state walked alongside Joe. When he spoke, she thought he was the guard from the gate. But she couldn't be sure.

"Us men will lift this," announced Joe's offsider.

In two minutes, they rolled it onto the cart. They tied down the cargo, and patted the animal's backside. "You can keep the rope. Our ways of sayin sorry for keepin you waitin. Good doin business with ya, missy."

Just watching them made her feel dirty. Finally, she could leave.

The sun had already set when she exited Waltham. She glanced back. A diesel plume followed by a low rumble throttle, and the bus moved, making the gate and wall one. Like a giant dark caterpillar hugging the hill's crest.

Sunset's half-light soon faded. Sepia tones became black and white. The same road that led her to Waltham with the promise of freedom now turned on her in the growing darkness. Every shadow that flickered in her peripheral view, every animal that scurried from her path, every tree that loomed overhead seemed to usher imminent doom.

Okay, don't be stupid. There's nothing here. The moon will rise soon... It'll rise soon.

Daylight's last evidence disappeared. Nancy raised her palm to her face _. I can't see my hand. How can the horse see anything? What if I stop?_ A peculiar noise rattled in the distance. _No, keep going._

The blackness had no direction. As if suspended in an abyss, she floated in emptiness. Only the undulating saddle anchored her to reality. Even the vegetation that crunched and snapped under hooves and wheels seemed surreal, strange music that floated to her from another realm. But she daren't push the animal faster.

_Breathe. Stay calm._ She repeated her mantra until the words elicited their desired effect. For a while, she concentrated on the clopping sound, marveling at the horse's ability to thread a path through the darkness.

All her hard work unraveled after hearing an unusual noise carried by a light wind. _Was it a voice?_ She stopped the stallion, waited, but nothing. _Only the breeze._ She squeezed her legs, and the animal moved again.

A few minutes later the sound repeated. This time clearer, closer. She dug her heels into its flanks. "Come on, boy. A bit faster, please." For a few paces he complied but then slowed to an amble.

Many hoof clops passed without unexplained sounds. Reassurance returned, and she relaxed into the rhythm, jostled in the saddle.

She stared towards her wrist and lifted it to her eyes. The old windup watch remained invisible.

Two years ago, she found it during a scavenge run on a local neighborhood near Allston's wall. It lay flat on a bedside table, as if placed moments before, silver-plating worn back to copper along the dial face. Once, someone cared for it, but then abandoned it.

After much straining, nothing definitive was revealed, only what she imagined was her wrist. It had one job, communicate a universal measure of the passage of events. Now she needed its help, and it deserted her.

Darkness swallowed time. While the pendulum froze, her mind raced. She rehashed all her bad decisions and cursed herself for her own stupidity. _Stop this, it's not helping._

Her thoughts returned to her watch. It felt as if hours passed. But seconds remained undefinable like its movement in dreams.

Nancy counted the stallion's footfalls, guessing what it might equal in distance. When she reached a hundred, she lost count and quit. Time became meaningless. She bobbed with its motion, a seemingly endless journey into nothingness.

Her mood lifted at the sight of a vaguely defined shard of light, hardly visible under a thousand coats of darkness. The heavens grew in luminosity until, slowly, a huge white orb ascended the horizon, rendering the night sky bright, like the thin lacquer of an oil painting, translucency built in layers. Again, the landscape transformed. Before, barely suppressed fear lurked just beyond reach in every direction. Now, as the moon rose, the broken houses adopted an enchanted aura.

The return of unwelcomed sounds shattered the serenity. _An animal?_ The noise repeated. A clatter, something knocked over, like metal on concrete. She tugged the reins gently. The horse halted. She strained to listen, but when the sound came, its clarity set her hair on end. _Footsteps, it's footsteps._

Nancy glanced behind. Cold shadows darted and disappeared, then resurfaced, closer, sharper, yet still uncertain. It moved in her peripheral vision, disappearing as she spun to focus. The dark shapes trod a line between imagination and reality. She turned the animal's head toward Waltham and yelled, "Is anyone there?"

Silence.

In the stillness she whispered, "It's just the moonlight playing tricks. Stop being weak." As she lifted the reins, ready to turn the horse for home, the unmistakable black silhouette of a human form scurried across the road in the distance. She gasped. Another person ran from cover farther behind. The figure bolted towards a house, fifty feet away. It then hid behind the front porch.

Imagined fears evaporated, replaced by real ones. A familiar taste filled her mouth, metallic and unwelcome, like something force fed. It was dread.

Fear kept her focused on her stalkers' position. To break eye contact invited them to move. Her eyes darted as if suffering a high fever. _They must know I spotted them?_

Her head clouded. She inhaled the deepest breath her lungs permitted then expelled it in a controlled blow. _Stay calm. You'll survive._ The mantra churned in her mind. At first, fast and erratic, until the unsustainable anxiety burnt itself out; her chants slowed, and clarity returned. Cold assessment followed.

It was impossible to surveil both people. The slow draft horse exposed her, leaving her unable to maneuver or hide. _Act. Be decisive._ She dismounted and grabbed her rifle. All the while, she kept her eyes fixed on the pursuers' last known location. With her shoulder pressed against the stallion's flank, she made her way towards the cart.

The gap between the animal and the cart appeared cavernous. Soon, she must cross the abyss, lower her weapon, and lose sight of her stalkers. Otherwise, it'd be impossible to uncouple the cart's dead weight and escape with haste.

As she leaned forward, a chill swept over her, moving through her torso. It drained her courage almost instantly as if a malignant force had removed a giant plug. With nothing left except a trembling body, she withdrew to the stallion and reached for the security it provided.

Movement stirred again in the shadows behind the closest house, injecting a greater sense of urgency into her heart. _Act or die_. Fear of inaction now outweighed its opposite. She lunged for the tow point, her weapon dropped to the ground.

With shaking hands, she fumbled with the connector, swearing, like a puppy's yelps, high-pitched and urgent. Every sound beyond the cart raised her head. But her brain stopped processing what her eyes saw. It all became a whirlwind.

_Hopeless, it's hopeless._ Tears flowed. Terror subsided as her fingers found the lever to detach the cart. _Yes!_ After heaving at the latch, the cart's front crashed down. It shuddered. Sharp edges gouged into the brittle tar.

As she stepped backward, her heel kicked against the rifle. She stooped to pick it up, her gaze still focused on her attackers. When her hand touched the stock, something creaked. Frozen mid-crouch, her eyes darted to the danger's source.

Joe had tied the heater to the tray's middle, which caused the center of balance to sit forward of the axle. With the tow lug planted on the road, the heater rolled into its restraints, halted after a quarter turn, by half-rotted ropes.

Small details resolved in brilliant focus. The rope snapped in slow motion, strand by strand. Each filament pinged, until a critical point passed, and the whole thing failed. The stretched hemp cord whipped under the sudden energy release, freeing the heater. As it tumbled from the cart, she dived from its path. The metal cylinder bashed and banged past her head, producing gong-like sounds that spooked the horse.

Horrified, she watched the stallion rise on its rear legs, whinny, and bolt home. "No! Come back!" It disappeared into darkness.

A desperate desire to cry almost overwhelmed her. But tears never arrived. Instead, she lay paralyzed, unable to act. Until a cackling laugh made her scramble upright.

"It's all yours," she yelled. Quiet. Her chest heaved. "Take it." Still no response.

To run invited a chase. But inaction seemed stupid and cowardly. So she sprinted from danger. Like a gazelle in full flight, her feet followed fully extended strides, one after the other, fists stabbing the air in synchronicity. When she put a hundred yards between herself and the cart, she stopped to glance back. Two figures converged on the road's center. They barreled past the heater and continued towards her. _They're after me!_

Tears of terror ran down Nancy's cheek. Her breathing accelerated to an unsustainable pace. The pain that twisted her side disappeared temporarily. She inhaled gulping mouthfuls of air and expelled them in a frantic wheeze. A small clearing flashed and flickered between openings in an otherwise unbroken line of wild bushes that flanked the road.

As she drew closer, a park entrance became visible. Tall trees gave way to shrubs, twigs, and threadbare leaves. _An opening._ Beyond the entry, strange rectangles grew from the ground in a grid formation, their heads raised slightly above the long grass. _Hundreds of them. Cover, use them. Go faster._ She pushed past the crippling pain that had returned.

Nancy charged through the undercover. Tangled in weeds, a fallen wrought iron gate rocked underfoot. Vegetation retreated to dirt, where a knee-high picket fence separated the road from earth killed by pine trees. Only three still guarded the driveway. She leaped the palings and broke hard right. Once properly inside the park, she sprinted beside the bushes that bordered the field. After thirty seconds, she turned left and ran away from the wild scrub. Her path swung in a long arc, using the strange stones as shields.

When the pain became unbearable, she slid behind the stone she thought provided the best view and took cover while she inhaled air as quickly as her burning lungs allowed. She hoped the maneuver would position her with a clear line of sight to her approaching enemy, without betraying her position.

Slowly, she peered over her protection. The moon blazed behind her, a favorable angle. Two figures milled at the park's entrance. They moved with a masculine gait. The predators ranged over the shrubs, presumably attempting to locate her before wading into the stones. Minutes later, her stalkers forfeited stealth for aggression.

"Missy! Missy!"

Hope vanished with that awful voice. Now that she recognized them, they'd kill her, unless she killed them first.

"Missy, we know you're in here. Come out, missy. We won't hurt you. We just want to talk. You didn't give us enough rounds."

She stayed rigid, knowing her shadow magnified movements. The two men separated and methodically checked stones on either side.

_Act now. The closer they get, the lower my chances._ As she raised her rifle, it occurred to her she'd never shot a living creature, much less a person. She dismissed the worry with a grunt. _This is survival._

She steadied the weapon against the stone, aimed through the scope, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The heavy crack made her jolt. A faint whiff of sulfur reached her.

The target dropped from view. Silence. Ten seconds later a voice boomed, "Missy, you'll pay for that! You missed... Missy!"

A dreadful cackling laugh filled the air.

"We know where you are now. We're coming for you. Then you'll be sorry."

A clap rang across the park like a barn door slammed by the wind. The stone's top in front of her exploded in a plume of splinted rock shards and powder. A vibrant wound carved in pallid masonry, white, even in the moonlight. She shook violently and dropped to her stomach. Another boom, and her cover shortened again. A third thunderclap followed.

"We're gunna get ya. There's nothing you could've done. Best ya give up."

Cowering under the dust cloud of shattered rock, she felt a strange transformation. Without actually leaving her body, or even seeing herself, she experienced a remote and distance sensation, as if she'd become an observer, not a participant.

Nancy examined herself dispassionately. Instead of the bold young woman she hoped for, she saw a quivering, useless girl. _Get up! You'll die anyway. Best die trying. Move, you dumb shit!_

While she trembled behind her stone Joe's comrade had swung around her right flank and now stood over her, his rifle aimed at her head.

"Got er, Joe!"

"Good work, Bill," Joe's voice sounded from roughly fifty yards away.

She peered skyward from her grounded position, to the shape of a man with a weapon pointed at her face. "Take the heater. Have it. I promise I won't tell. Please, please, let me go."

The man didn't budge until Joe arrived. "But you'll tells, missy, ya will. A pretty girl like you. Too pretty for the likes of me. Hey? Ya too good for me? Well me and me pal here will show you'll be not so special like. We'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

As Bill undid his trouser buckles she screamed, a piercing, shrill, urgent shriek. She jumped to her feet so quickly it stunned Joe for a second, until his base instincts took over, and he punched her in the face and sent her flying backward, crashing onto the ground and into unconsciousness.

"Ah Joe... Ya knocked her out. It won't be fun now."

Joe leaned his rifle against the stone and unbuckled his trouser belt. "She'll wake up soon nuf!" 

# Chapter 15 – Poisoned

May 19, 2057, 5:15 p.m. – Allston

Trevor greeted serendipity as if delivered by fate rather than coincidence. In front of him, sprawled on the asphalt just outside Admin, Logan clawed at the hard ground and sobbed hysterically. Two days ago, he secured the poison. Now he could swoop on her.

After scanning the vicinity, he jogged to her, stooped, and acted with surprised concern. "What's wrong?"

"Trevor?"

"Yes." He scooped her tiny frame off the ground. Her feet fell as he lifted her, legs limp and useless. Step-by-step, he eased her away from Admin and crept towards his dwelling. Most of her weight hung on his arms.

"Can I help with anything?"

The question unleashed a torrent of tears. After cries subsided to sniffles she said, "We're starving. I'm not strong enough for duties."

"There, there. It'll be fine. Come to my house. You can eat while we talk. I'm sure we can solve this."

Between sobbing, she thanked him. After her breathing calmed, she said, "I'm on duty soon."

"That's no problem. Everyone's late. No one cares. Have a few bites. Then you can go."

Slowly, he led her to his porch. "Excuse my mess. I haven't received a guest in ages."

At the bottom step, he guided her hand to the rail and bounded ahead to unlock his front door. Done, he turned to her and held the door open. Below him, she hesitated, doubt written in her expression. He turned the light on, stepped back, and waved her up. As he waited for her to climb the stairs, his heartbeat accelerated.

Finally, her feet shuffled forward. On entering she said, "Your place looks fine. Thank you."

"Sit here." He motioned her towards a kitchen chair, red-checkered fabric and a chipped chromed tubular frame. "Is bread and jam okay?"

"That'd be lovely." After sitting, she sniffed and asked, "Can I save it for my son?"

"There's enough for you both. You can take loaves and jars home."

"Thank you... Thank you so much... You're so kind."

A breakfast bar separated the kitchen from the dining room. Barely three paces whisked him over the cypress timber boards to the cheap linoleum kitchen floor. Large fake black-and-white tiles set at forty-five degrees to the wall. Faded and worn thin with long grooves where furniture had once been moved carelessly. Tatty but clean.

Hunched in a squat, he ferreted through the cupboards, searching for ingredients. Without lifting to speak he shouted into the open cabinet, "No problem, don't worry. You're my guest."

The jars all lined in a row, their handwritten labels turned outwards. He touched each one, as if counting them, until his finger fell on an unlabeled bottle.

A small satisfied snort escaped his lips. Glass container firmly in grip, he rose and faced her with a glancing smile before he returned attention to the bench. Here he laid all his ingredients. Bread on the plate, he reached for the poison, sprinkled some on the sandwich with a spoon, and spread a generous layer of jam on top. "Extra sugar to put fat on your bones."

A barely suppressed sneer crossed his face as he stared at her. Logan's distorted image reflected in his corneas. Stretched and bent over his eye's lens, the vision appeared to him as a woman no higher than cattle, an insipid animal that blew in the wind.

He returned with the food. An awful smile grew, like a clown's grin. The plate rocked in a circle after he dropped it on the table. She snatched the sandwich and pushed it greedily into her mouth. A terrible heaving sound followed. Color rushed to her head, and she spun; thin vomit spewed to the floor.

A panicked look replaced his scowl. He realized she teetered on starvation. If she ate too quickly, it'd kill her. He'd calculated the dosage based on a healthy person. Even a small amount of poison would wreak havoc with her weakened body. He snatched the plate away. She heaved once more, but nothing came. After wiping her mouth she gazed up, her face a picture of fear.

"I'm so sorry. I'll clean it now," she whimpered and stood.

"No. Everything is fine." Gently, he motioned for her to sit. "If you eat fast, you'll become very sick, maybe worse. Slow down, rest, and rebuild your strength."

When he finished speaking, her head slumped and her arms fell limp. "No!" He grabbed at her clammy face and shook and slapped her. "Wake up. Wake up."

For ages, she drifted between consciousness and another state. She'd rouse suddenly, eyes shooting open, whereupon she'd yell something like, "My boy, where's Ryan?" The effort exhausted her, and she'd blackout again.

As she blathered about her son, her bloody son, he reached out, his fingers squeezing her throat, and his face tightened into a vicious smile. She choked immediately. Once he realized ending her would only provide short-lived satisfaction, he released his grip and stumbled backward, repulsed at the sight of her.

When his spine hit the breakfast bar, he spun and made for the sink to wash her filth off his hands.

Aside from the poison induced fever causing her to sweat profusely, she was clean. But in Trevor's mind, a sea of bacterial disease swamped every inch of her, threatening to overrun him at any moment. He considered her a filthy unkempt animal. Every one stank to him.

Wipe the entire slate.

Delirium robbed her senses for hours. At first, he grew angry, until time whittled his frustration into acceptance. The poison would work through her system. How long it'd take remained a mystery.

Even a little poison might cause chaos given her weakened state. Sleep tempted him. But he realized if she improved too much, if she became too lucid, he'd have to torture her to extract information.

If he tortured her, he must kill her. All the difficulties of disposing of the body played through his mind. That'd be Plan B. Plan A required him to stay near, observe, and interrogate her at exactly the right point of delirium. When the poison worked, it'd degrade her senses, without dulling her thinking, as if she'd spun violently inside a giant speaker for hours.

At 2:00 a.m., the moment arrived. A voice called for her son, jolting him awake. As he rubbed his eyes, she mentioned her boy again. _Time to finish this charade._

"Logan, Logan, can you hear me?" When he slapped her cheek she groaned, moved, and then fell back into unconsciousness. He struck her again. "Logan!"

"Gus? Is that you Gus?"

Trevor's expression screwed in confusion. After a few moments he responded, "Yes, it's me, Gus."

"Gus..." Her eyes closed.

A loud whack followed as he hit her face. It turned red, but she didn't react.

"Gus, I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. Everything is fine," Trevor said as he slumped down into a chair.

"No, what I did was wrong..."

"That's all okay. You needn't worry about that anymore. Tell me, Logan, where are the professor's BQCs?"

"Who is this?"

Although her senses faded and her words slurred, the tone remained detectable in her voice. He realized his abrupt inquiry roused her suspicion.

Furious, he punched his own leg. Pain stabbed his thigh. After pacing, he returned to sit and churned over the need for patience. He waited until she drifted back to unconsciousness to create a break from the previous question, then shook her and yelled, "Logan, Logan, it's me, Gus."

"Gus?"

"Yes, Gus. Why are you sorry?"

"Huh? What do you mean? Yes... sorry... Pushed you aside. Couldn't cope."

"Why did you push me away?"

"I... It's... I didn't know what else to do."

"What happened? What happened, Logan?"

"I was attacked... I was... outside Waltham."

The cloudy sheen in her eyes cleared, and her cheeks turned red. She spat the words with hatred, like vicious dogs starved before finally released onto their prey. "Those disgusting men raped me." She slumped. A look of peace returned. Ten seconds later she continued. "I blamed myself... I wasn't careful enough. I accused you. You didn't help me... You were a man. And men did this."

Trevor smiled. The poison finally did its intended job. She became lucid, but her senses remained dulled, so he'd stay unrecognizable. At most, he'd have ten minutes before incoherency returned. As he drummed his fingers nervously, he waited. Any interjection might derail her fragile state.

The sweat that'd covered her forehead dried, and her gaze sharpened though remained unfocused. Her voice, firm and natural. "After Ryan was born, I was weighed by a terrible sin. Before his birth, I denounced him, guilty for the crime beyond his control. I resolved to abandon him. After his birth, my anger vanished. But I treated you so badly that you'd never forgive me. I'm so sorry."

"I love you, Logan. All is forgiven."

She smiled through her tears. "I know. I've always loved you too."

For a while, he considered how to bend the conversation to his purpose. Pretending to be Gus was easy, if he avoided specificity. But if he stuck to generalities, they'd circumnavigate the truth all night. Close but never closing.

"When did you first think you loved me?" he asked, fishing for specifics.

"I'll always remember the day you visited Waltham. It was noon. But it was more like night than day. The clouds nearly blacked out the sky, and a gale swept from the east. Danger dictated everything in those days. So when you appeared outside our gate, I thought your intentions were hostile. From the gantry, I only saw your mop of wild hair blown in the wind. But when you lifted your head and you grinned, cheeky and impish, blood flushed my cheeks, and electricity ran down my spine. The horse stood on your foot a moment later, and you danced in agony. I almost wet myself laughing. But I knew I loved you then, this tall young man, barely older than a boy."

"I missed you, when you worked for the professor. What happened? Why did you go?"

"I was naïve and scared. Nothing made sense before I met you. Afterwards, everything turned on its head. I couldn't handle it. You probably think I ran away. Maybe it's true. But I also came back for you."

_Finally_ , Trevor sighed to himself, _usable information_. From the small amount of work he previously completed for the professor via Brenna and the snooping he engaged in whenever the opportunity presented itself, he knew when Logan started and finished working for the professor.

"You began in January 2050, if I remember correctly?"

Trevor wielded pedantry like a weapon. Facts, dates, names, weather, and all other minutiae, stockpiled for future use. Each shard of information became shrapnel. In isolation, a single splinter only carved a small superficial wound. Collectively, they did great damage. Precision and details were his best friends.

"The job must've been rewarding?"

"Yes, everything was exciting. The professor always instilled hope and purpose. His work was phenomenal. I became part of something important. It was exhilarating."

"Hard to leave that behind?"

"Yes, but in the long hours, mostly alone, I spent forever considering what counted. I thought about what I wanted, what I'd do, and what I'd become. After six months, I realized that the problem was the word 'I.' In the end, everything dissolves into nothingness. Including my work, something I felt so important. Only this moment has meaning. Right here, right now. So, in that minute, on 8 June 2050 at 3:46 pm, I remembered I loved you. Then nothing else mattered except returning."

He shook his fist silently in victory. "I should've joined you."

"The professor wouldn't have agreed. Security was critical. It was a big deal for me to be there."

"No, I mean I could've tried to work for the professor too. Then we could've been together."

"Yes. I would've liked that. Together, working in Galveston."

In a temporary lapse of discipline, he squeezed his fists and raised them to his mouth as he squealed silently in delight. Control became more and more difficult as he closed on his goal. Excesses and setbacks magnified a thousandfold, expressed in a binary form, as either euphoria or rage. While he understood restraint's necessity, something he'd exercised for so long, the ability to wield it increasingly slipped from his hands, albeit momentarily.

He permitted his feet to dance a short jig. Then, sobering in the gravity of his success, he applauded himself for seeking more information before he responded to Katharine's scans. As he drank in Logan's suffering, he reflected on Katharine's weakness. Even with her vast resources, she achieved nothing. He dropped his hands from his mouth and held them out, open palms, like a prophet to a child, outstretched with wisdom.

The BQCs are mine.

After finishing his theatrics, he summoned strength to suppress excitement. "Could we return, together? Is the professor still there?"

"He hasn't moved, silly. He can't move. The computers are too big. You would've loved to see Nostradamus. She was... is powerful. There's no problem she can't crack."

"She?" Trevor interrupted.

"Well, I decided he was a she." Logan laughed a half chuckle and then coughed violently.

As she spluttered, he rotated his hand, gesturing her to hurry. He knew she couldn't see, but the act gave him pleasure regardless. When she finished he asked, "Who's with him now?"

"No one, I guess. It was all self-contained, not much has changed."

_Does she know more? It's a long way to go. I must be sure._ He pushed the point again. "He can't be all alone?"

"Of course not."

"He would've needed help?"

"Yeah... you know this... I need to sleep..." As she spoke, her lucidity faded.

He tried a few more times to extract an answer. When he realized the futility, he said, "I must attend duty. You should rest. Drink this before I go." Slowly, palm under her neck, he lifted her head from the pillow and put the glass of poisoned water to her mouth. She sipped and collapsed.

It had been a marathon session. Now that his interrogation succeeded, his energy rapidly drained. At 2:30 a.m., he flopped on the seat beside the bunk. His arms hung heavy, his eyes heavier still. After a few minutes, he braced himself and rose to his feet. Much work lay ahead. Once sure of Logan's unconsciousness, he picked her up and carried her to her house.

When she woke, she wouldn't remember anything. She'd be in her own bed. If she died, it'd be quiet. If anyone discovered her, it'd look like starvation. Either way, nothing would connect Trevor's departure to her, alive or otherwise.

Briefly, he considered killing her to wrap up loose ends. Yet his plan and its execution pleased him enormously. It seemed the act would dishonor his strategy's genius. So he left.

The sooner he departed for Galveston Island the better. He resolved to pack and leave immediately. However, when he reached home he changed his mind. Exhaustion sapped his will to do more than doze. He didn't bother to undress or even remove his shoes. He fell back onto his bed. When his head hit the pillow, he lapsed into a deep sleep. Plans could wait a few more hours.

# Chapter 16 – Rescue

May 19, 2057, 6:58 p.m. – Allston

Gus doubled-checked the guard log. It showed Nancy due at seven. A moment later, he glanced again at his watch. Two minutes passed since he last looked—7:00 p.m. precisely. Only the South Gate was wide enough for the cart. An entrance he now guarded. The sun had set, and she hadn't returned.

Many unpleasant words accurately described Nancy. Tardy wasn't one of them. Even experienced traders risked great danger. Naivety left her only luck with which to manage the risk.

Fifteen minutes later, he decided to act. He opened a valve to fill the water tower. A pump flashed up. Water slapped and splashed as it cascaded into the corrugated tank.

Before disease gripped his body, he jerry-rigged heavy floats in all the guard point water towers. He'd tied rope to the empty plastic drums and hung them over the reservoirs. As it filled, the float rose and lowered the cable onto which he now clung. By 7:11 p.m., he reached the ground and hit the pump's cut-off switch.

People showed no interest in others or their surroundings. So his invention went unnoticed. No one except Nancy ever asked how he climbed and descended the tower. Fellow guards must have witnessed him operate the pumps. But they cared so little they barely registered his existence. For them, the moment didn't matter. Reality was an unwelcome distraction that stood between them and their return to the Strat.

Nancy may have been an obnoxious, rude, controlling, and occasionally contemptible know-it-all. But unlike everyone else, she radiated a spark. Gus noticed her artwork, her boredom, and her curiosity. Most of all he observed the fleeting signs of true compassion that'd reveal itself like delicate flickers of a candle. A carrot for the horse, her lunch she offered to Logan's boy, the time she spent making shirts for her friends. All these small kindnesses stood in stark contrast to an otherwise cruel environment. A world where kindness had become alien. Empathy teetered on extinction. It was fragile, perhaps more precious than life itself. Even the callousness with which she responded to him made him feel more human than the disinterest others showed.

During the professor's speech he'd seen her expression after she'd abused him and everyone glared at her disapprovingly. The shame clearly written in her blush. She reacted as if they judged her, silently labelling her a bigot. But, aside from Brenna, it was only the volume of her fuss that invoked their ire. Only someone with a conscience suffered guilt. So in a strange way, Nancy's conduct at the lecture endeared her even more to Gus.

Her immaturity annoyed him. But no more or less than everyone else's behavior. In a world where responsibility didn't extend beyond self-preservation, maturity died before its conception.

As he pressed forward, the cane's handle slipped with sweat. A one-mile trip stood between Cambridge Street Gate and Admin, a short distance by most accounts. But for him, a journey measured in slow shuffles and staggers. The faster he pushed his limbs, the greater their recalcitrance. No matter how hard he tried, his legs refused to run. Certain something dreadful happened, he strained harder.

She was too young and green to be a purchaser, and too rude to avoid trouble.

To make her a purchaser seemed heartless. Stupidity didn't explain Robert's actions. Many of his decisions were unpalatable. Nevertheless, years of leadership proved his intelligence, albeit cruel. The thought that Robert willingly risked an asset puzzled him. The town was small and aging, and its viability required youth. Beside, Waltham was a terrible place to send anyone, never mind a novice purchaser. An answer eluded him.

Sweat ran down Gus's face. Twice he fell. Each time he came to a bone-jarring stop as he flung his uncooperative limbs in front, hoping to break his descent. The stick that supported him exacted a price for its help. As he collapsed, it frequently dug into the ground, and the thin handle punched his ribs. If he let go, it'd bounce and scatter, forcing him to crawl to retrieve it. But if he gripped it, as hard as his disobedient muscles allowed, he'd fall knuckles into the bitumen, the cane magnifying the impact.

Gravel deeply embedded in his lacerated wrists and knees. Finally, he made it to the Admin door. Protocol required him to push the buzzer. But he ignored it and bashed the door's metal panels, which rocked under his fist.

A whooshing sound ensued, followed by clanking noises caused by the internal industrial-style deadlocks grating on retraction. Robert flung the external door open. "What the blazes is going on?"

Still gasping for air, Gus couldn't respond.

Robert scrutinized him and yelled, "Why aren't you on station?"

"Nancy hasn't returned."

"And? My question remains."

"She is due back now. Something is wrong. You must send someone after her."

"Don't presume to give me orders. She's late, that's all. Return to your post and stay until relieved. You just bought a twenty-four-hour shift."

"She's many things. But tardy is never one of them."

"Should I slap you down, gimp?"

Gus's rage rose. However, he realized the argument's futility. So he hobbled off as Robert slammed the Admin door shut. He headed to the stables.

Agony grabbed him at every step. _Keep going._ Determined, he blocked the pain by focusing on process.

_How can I reach her? I can't even open the gate._ As he approached the barn, he decided to solve each problem individually. _Transportation? I can lie on the cart. That's about it._

When he reached the horses, he stopped for a minute to catch his breath. _You're no help unconscious._

For twenty minutes, he fumbled with the riding gear and achieved little progress. Frustrated, he shook from exertion but pressed on regardless. On the seventh attempt to heave the saddle onto the mare, it fell back on him, causing him to crash backward into sodden straw. He picked a handful of it and threw it at the stable gate. It disintegrated, broke apart after a yard, and drifted to the ground.

_Can't even throw._ He laughed and slumped over the stall's bottom rail. Motionless, he hung over the hardwood barrier until a rustling sound disrupted his self-pity. The bar slid in his grasp as he pulled himself upright. When he stood, he saw Lukka pass, three yards outside the large double barn-style stable doors.

Gus yelled, "Quick. Someone dropped a case of 9mm here." He knew he'd never get help from anyone by asking.

Pasty and pimple-ridden, the seventeen-year-old boy rushed over. Instead of finding free booty, he discovered a pistol-wielding Gus.

"Finish setting up my horse." Gus pointed his gun at Lukka.

"You won't shoot." Lukka turned and walked away.

Gus aimed and fired a shot that tore a hole in Lukka's baggy sleeve. When the situation demanded, he possessed the power to muster control over his limbs long enough to wield precision.

"Darn it. Missed. Lucky I've got five more rounds."

Lukka spun. He rushed over, snapping like a child. "You'll be in trouble for this. Big trouble!"

"In for a penny. In for a pound."

Lukka stared quizzically.

"Well, if I'll be punished anyway, it doesn't matter what I do. Does it?" He aimed the gun at Lukka's head.

Lukka gulped and acquiesced. He saddled and harnessed the animal and connected the cart. On finishing, he said sarcastically, "Can I go now?"

"No. You must rig the light too."

"Boss said no one can use it."

"He gave me permission."

"No, he didn't. You know it's the last battery."

"Just do it."

Lukka hefted the lead acid battery from the stable bench and dropped it in the cart's rear.

"Careful," Gus said.

After he slid it against the back Lukka said, "Finished."

"I don't think so. Connect the light."

"I can't. I've never done it before," Lukka snapped.

Gus walked him through the process. Upon completion, Gus said, "Help me up. Get us out South Gate. Then you can return to whatever the hell you were doing."

Lukka nodded. He assisted Gus onto the cart, took the mare by the bridle, and led them towards the town's exit.

"Run Lukka. Unless you want lead in your ass." Gus chuckled to himself. Lukka broke into a slow jog with the animal in step beside him. They reached their destination fifteen minutes later where Lukka worked the block and pulley to open the gate. He reefed the chain through the block, and the heavy door opened an inch with every pull. When sufficient width cleared, he pulled the horse through the gap. Once outside Allston's walls, he dropped the reins and spun.

"No, no, no." A wry smile grew on Gus's face as he waved his pistol side to side.

"But you promised?"

"I'm not properly out yet. Lead us to the crossing." Gus pointed ahead.

Lukka grumbled but obeyed. At the first intersection past the overpass he stopped.

"Good work," Gus said. "Now, run and close the gate. If you're not done within four minutes, I'll come back for you, and you won't like it." He waved the gun at Lukka again.

The young man sprinted up the street and worked the pulley chain furiously. Before the deadline expired, the wall became one again.

Gus thought the effort should tire him. _The boy will calm and forget the minute he plugs into the Strat._ He smiled, happy to be on the road. With the long rope in his hands leading up to the reins, he flicked his wrist and commanded, "Canter." The mare knew Gus. He always gave her a carrot. So the animal responded positively.

Every dip and bump jarred the cart. Thin wheels amplified the force. The rudimentary shock absorbers did little to soften the blows. Even on a straight stretch, he had to fight to stay aboard. With his foot braced in the sideboard and his left arm hooked over the rear rail, splayed on his back, he bounced like fried popcorn. He gripped the reins with his right hand and pulled them hard to his chest. The yard of leather beyond his fist jumped about on his stomach.

He relied on the animal to guide itself through the road's obstacles. The night turned from dark to black, and the lamp faced forward, allowing the mare to see the path ahead. At best, from his back, he glimpsed short snatches in his peripheral vision.

The lantern threw a dim halo of light behind. Enough to discern a passing pot hole, a low branch's silhouette, cracked concrete gutters, a familiar building's corner, crumbled bricks, and shattered glass.

He focused on everything; a snapshot of random images, some recognizable, others rendered strange by the darkness. Together they built a picture, one that confirmed they continued on the correct path.

The moon climbed the horizon within an hour, bathing the road and bush in light. He heard a voice. Clear, even over the cart's noise. It sounded like someone shouted 'Missy.' He yelled, "Whoa" to the horse, which obliged. Then he noted it again: 'Missy,' followed by unintelligible vocalizations.

_It's the old cemetery._ Blood drained from his knuckles as he gripped the tray harder. He told the mare to gallop. It complied immediately.

The wagon jolted under the acceleration. The rope into which he'd wound himself unraveled, causing him to tumble to its bottom. From his low-slung position, they seemed to rocket down the road uncontrollably. The reins slapped around him, thrashing like a dropped firehose.

Three times, he flung his right hand at the wild dancing leather leash. Thrice, he failed. On his fourth attempt, he snatched the straps from the air. He pushed them into his mouth and bit down. With hands freed, he spun to his stomach and reached for the top rail. From the bottom, he saw nothing, and he couldn't control the horse.

The cart threw him around, whipping him from one side to the next. Arms and limbs flailed, a stringless puppet thrown into a tornado. With all the power his muscles could muster, he jammed his feet hard against the tailgate. In a minor miracle, his efforts succeeded, and the top rail came into his grasp. Involuntarily, he snorted in relief. Time narrowed on him.

His eyes raised enough to glimpse the road ahead. Hooves drummed in double beat. Stray branches from dark shrubs, like a thousand dead hands, clawed at the sky rendered purple in the moonlight. The world whisked past his peripheral vision. They closed on a small clearing, just before the cemetery. He hauled the reins hard as they reached the bend's ankle. The mare's head pulled right, and its body followed, flinging the wagon in a wide arc in its wake.

Again, the cart seemed determined to eject him. Centrifugal force thrust his spine into the sideboards. The ramshackle buggy fishtailed after the horse completed the turn then shuddered as it fell in line behind the animal. The sudden lurch saved him. It tossed him backward, just as he hovered over the left side's precipice. The changed vector provided sufficient time to regain his grip.

A gunshot cracked less than two hundred yards away. He called the mare to halt. _The lamp!_ He pulled at a wire, which came tight, then flopped after it ripped from the battery terminal. With the light extinguished, he swam in darkness until his eyes adjusted.

He scrambled off the cart and spilled onto the ground. A thud and a dull ache resulted. He stumbled to his feet and grabbed his rifle. A dense hedge, long since overgrown, blocked his view, deep black against the light. Dark bushes crackled as he stabbed them with his cane. A twisted mess of thorns pierced his trousers and cleaved flesh from his thighs. He ignored the pain. Only his gasping worried him. If he didn't slow his heart and lungs, he couldn't shoot straight.

Taunting sounded, like men teasing prey. _It must be Nancy._ Another shot echoed from his left. Accuracy required he block all stress. He needed to find calmness. Only then could he control breathing.

A third thunderclap. This time the muzzle flash betrayed the shooter. A second man hooked across the cemetery in a wide flanking maneuver on what he guessed was Nancy's position. A thick, low horizontal branch hung ahead, perfect for resting the rifle. Before disease stole his coordination, he could've easily fired from where he stood. Those days departed long ago.

Gus noted the wind. Soft and cool against his face. He hooked his cane's crook over a thin branch beside him, his eyes locked on his prey. He adjusted his scope for estimated distance. Resting against thicker timber, peace washed over him. He lifted the rifle, eye to the lens, and visualized a shooting range. A man stood at the end of his imaginary alley. The man stooped over something. In the empty cemetery, logic dictated it was Nancy. He cleared the headstones and all other distractions from his imagination and focused on the man in his cross hairs.

# Chapter 17 – The Return

May 19, 2057, 8:56 p.m. – Old cemetery outside Waltham

Nearly a decade ago, at sixteen years old, Gus was 'drafted' into the Medford Army. However, in 2048 events bleached meaning from the word. The term assumed separation between the state and its citizens. In anarchy, individuals can't be drafted into the military any more than one can be drafted into a street fight.

Like all other boys and girls his age, childhood didn't protect him from cruelty. If historians existed, they would've labeled it either the second or third American civil war, depending on their characterization of U.S. race relations. But there were no academics, or a nation state to set the stage for conflict. Violence devolved to its purest form, bludgeoning another human being to death for survival.

Now only one thing counted. Brutality bequeathed him a ruthless aptitude, when required. Yet, his body's limitations were real, an insurmountable summit that no quantity of cynical zeal could conquer.

Over the last twenty-four hours, Gus's hands degenerated. Like strangers, his brain issued commands, but his limbs obeyed less frequently. Force of will achieved diminishing return on effort. For years, his coordination gradually deteriorated, punctuated by occasional free fall.

The first time his motor control plummeted it frightened him deeply. Afterward he thought he almost sensed his own cells betray him. Poisoned with disease, his blood itself felt corrupted. But fear no longer gripped him. This was the third decline, which he faced with grief and resignation.

Determined, he pushed away worries about his body failing. The shot required confidence. In his mind, he became a hunter, unencumbered by disability.

The moon illuminated his quarry as a silhouette. The bandit's head sat in his cross hairs. Everything needed for success fell in place. His two targets stood within arm's length from each other. A light wind blew towards him. His heart rate lowered and his breathing followed.

He braced his rifle against the tree, taking time to focus the scope. The prey leaned its weapon against a headstone after striking Nancy. Everything froze in a perfect moment. The second man would lunge for his rifle when Gus pulled the trigger, rendering his behavior predictable. He'd know where to send the subsequent bullet before the objective occupied that space.

His finger traced the trigger lightly. A familiar ritual, remembered involuntarily. He squeezed. The gun kicked hard, as expected. He watched the man drop like a lifeless sack of potatoes. And, just as he anticipated, the other man reached for his weapon.

Gus hauled the bolt to chamber a round and steadied the target in his scope. In the stillness that followed, he pulled the trigger again. The muzzle flashed. A hundred yards away, the bullet ripped through the man's collarbone. The force spun him ninety degrees.

Gus lifted his eye from the lens and snugged the rifle's butt against his shoulder. As he slid the bolt to load a third round, the man stooped towards his rifle and froze as if he'd changed his mind.

When Gus's head dropped to focus on the next shot, the man had leaped from the scope's narrow field of view. He glanced up, watching the man's barrel-like body race through tall stalks of seeded grass, wailing in retreat. An instant later, Gus estimated his bearing and speed.

His right eye fixed on the dime-sized glass again. He led the mark slightly and fired. _Missed!_ After cursing himself for failing to make a kill shot, he refocused.

_Clear your mind._ As he chambered another bullet, he visualized a shooting range anew. The man changed vector, moving away from him, rather stupidly, in a straight line with little side movement. Visualization complete, he exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked; it kicked a fourth and final time; its payload traveled swift and true to its intended destination, Joe's rib cage. Gus saw the man drop. He reloaded and waited ten minutes for evidence of life.

Gus didn't realize Joe lived. Mortally wounded but still able to crawl, Joe slithered home. He kept crawling through the cold dirt, on a journey that'd take him all night to finish, before finally arriving, close to death, at Waltham's gates just before sunrise. Not quite dead, he retained enough strength to last the ten minutes it took his interrogators to extract the full story from him.

***

Nancy jolted to consciousness. Pinned down, she wrestled with an unknown weight. It made little sense. A hand flopped on her face. She screeched and suddenly understood. A lifeless torso straddled her. It belonged to the repulsive man who pointed a rifle at her head only moments ago.

She continued to scream as she attempted to push his limp, uncooperative body off her. Blood and brains spilled over her stomach. Skull fragments with tufts of hair, bone glistening in the moonlight. The man sluiced off her, his final embrace dislodged by her frantic kicks.

For a minute, she only managed a shrill cry. Slowly, logical thought displaced hysteria until she rediscovered self-control and halted mid-scream.

Think. Think. Where's Joe? How did this man die? Is someone else trying to kill me?

Still on her back, Nancy craned her neck, trying to grasp the situation's entire panorama. The clues seemed illiterate, a nonsensical riddle. She spotted a gun three yards off, propped against a stone. As she turned she saw another.

She rolled onto her stomach and crawled towards the closest weapon; all the while she kept her elbows and knees in contact with the ground. Her fingers stabbed the dirt, clutches of earth gripped like handles to drag her forward.

When she reached the rifle, she checked the clip and reloaded the magazine. A round already occupied the chamber.

Whoever shot this man might be hunting me too. Maybe they didn't see me? Perhaps there were other bandits? What if they ambushed Joe and Bill? Even so, they wouldn't differ from those disgusting animals.

A whirlwind of questions ripped through her mind. In the calm epicenter, only one remained: _what's your exit plan?_

A voice yelled from the distance, "Nancy, Nancy, it's Gus!"

The sound arrived clear as a sea breeze interrupting a sweltering afternoon. Everything felt so surreal. She couldn't trust her senses. _What if they were trying to trick me? They knew my name. It couldn't be Gus._

She listened as the voice repeated and attempted to fix its direction. It emanated from the east, in front of the dark shrubs, beyond the stones. Like a cat, she moved slow and low to position herself behind cover. This time she scrutinized her surroundings. _They won't outflank me again._ As she swept her gaze eastward, she observed a figure stumble from the thickets into the moonlight. He still yelled her name.

She decided on a strategy. She'd drop this man now and reposition herself immediately further northeast. With no paths and thick bush, a northern approach remained unlikely. If they attempted a similar maneuver, they'd attack from the west or south. Nancy rose off her stomach for a clear shot between the stones.

The man limped, both arms lifted, his right hand holding a rifle sideways. The figure staggered towards her, and his limbs dropped. He appeared wounded. For a second, she wondered who might've been responsible. But she dismissed the thought. It didn't matter. Whoever they were, and however injured, they'd become easy prey.

The man rocked in her scope as he limped. She shifted her cross hairs to the target's center of movement. Only a small curved piece of metal stood between life and death. The trigger's steel, cold and smooth. With ergonomic precision, its curves guided her finger to the point of lethal contact. As she squeezed, the man dropped from view before the trigger passed an invisible and fatal barrier.

The voice cried out again, "Nancy, it's me, Gus."

She lowered the weapon and concentrated.

"Gus?"

"Yes, it's me. The one you call the gimp. Don't shoot!"

Hesitation.

She whispered, "Yes." The man repeated the request, and she responded a second time, loud and clear. "Okay."

The man raised himself upright, slowly, awkwardly. Using the rifle as a make-shift cane, he hobbled to Nancy. Still caught in disbelief, she stood and waited for this man to close on her position. Index finger gripped the trigger, the stock firm in her grasp. Familiar features came into focus as he moved nearer.

Ten yards away, she dropped the gun and ran to him, threw her arms around him, and broke down in tears. They both fell to the ground together. Gus held her as she cried. But she didn't cry long and, moments later, found self-composure. She shuffled to face him, creating a comfortable distance. Then she drew her knees up under her chin and hugged her legs. With a tight grip, she rocked on her backside.

"Did you shoot both of them?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And they're both dead?"

"I'm pretty sure. But we should go soon."

Her head dropped and she extended a foot, kicking her heel into the earth. "They were going to—"

"Yes. But they didn't get the chance." After a short pause he continued, "The horse is that way. Time to go home. Now, it's your turn to help me."

Nancy stood and lifted Gus. She grasped his waist to support him. He leaned on her shoulder, and they limped towards the mare. She glanced sideways and saw him wince, his eyes focused on the path ahead. Her face sagged. "Sorry for calling you a gimp. It was wrong of me. I don't know why—"

"It's all forgiven. Don't worry. Focus on getting home."

"Home..." Nancy muttered. "What happens now?"

"Well, Waltham will probably send someone to negotiate compensation. They won't get away with this cheaply."

"They shouldn't get away full stop." She had so much to say. But anger, little education, and poor social skills combined to steal her ability to articulate her emotions' ferocity. So she said nothing more on the subject except one line delivered with solid intent. "They'll pay for this."

She re-rigged the cart and helped Gus up. The return trip passed slowly, with Nancy walking at the animal's front, guiding it home. When they reached Allston, it was close to midnight.

Ahead, the South Gate towered. The brown rusted car wall appeared a patchwork of alien shadows in the bright moonlight.

She yelled at the tower.

The response came slow and slurred. "Who's there?"

"Were you sleeping? Idiot! What if I was a bandit? Moron!"

"Shove off," the guard retorted.

"Great... Where is the boss?"

"Dunno."

"If you don't tell me, you'll hang for dereliction of duty. I haven't time for bullshit. Where is he?"

"At home, I guess, probably in the Strat."

"Did anyone report me missing?"

"Why? Were you?"

"Is there anything in the logs?"

The guard huffed and responded, "No."

"You haven't even looked."

"Whatever."

"That figures."

Nancy guided the horse through the gates towards the stable. Once under the lights, Gus startled. "What is it?" she asked.

"Your eye looks terrible. We must find something for it."

"You know there's nothing."

"I might have ointments at my house," he said.

The suggestion caught her unprepared, a kindness that exceeded expected behavior. Her thoughts naturally gravitated to suspicion. There could only be one reason for his attention. Ire rose until she remembered he'd saved her.

Until tonight, she spoke without hesitation. Whatever filled her mind flowed from her lips. But now that seemed inappropriate, and she struggled to imagine tactful words. It was a lot harder than anticipated. "Thanks... but... I'm not—well... I don't find you attractive."

Gus cackled.

"Why are you laughing?" Her expression became defensive.

"You're too young for me. Look, I like you because you're different from most. Anything different is good... mostly. You're lovely... sometimes... But there's someone else for me."

Nancy's scowl melted, replaced by a bright blush.

"What'll you do now?" he asked.

"I must see the boss."

"I should come with you."

"No, it's okay, I can go myself. Besides, he's in the Strat. If I knew where he lives I'd go there. It's so stupid in this tiny town that no one knows anyone's address."

"Yes, it's silly. You're welcome to visit me anytime."

***

After Nancy helped Gus back to his home, she made her way to her own house to don the StratSuit and confront Robert. Her anger bubbled away as she held court in her own mind. She imagined his responses, answers that increased her wrath.

Once she'd logged into the Strat, she visualized Robert, and an instant later arrived at the set of 'The Late Show.' Sammy Steward, an entertainment StratBot and the host, occupied center stage. With wide-open arms, he asked the audience, "Now, whenever a host says my next guest needs no introduction, they immediately follow this up with one! So, what should I do when introductions are truly redundant? Hey?"

He pranced the ebony floor. As he walked, he shrugged and pulled comically at his chin and then raised his right eyebrow. As if struck by an idea, he pointed his finger to the air and continued, "I know! You pull this lever!"

Ticker tape and sparklers fell from the ceiling after he pushed an oversized lever. A throne descended below a confetti cloud. When the audience realized Robert was the occupant, they erupted in a frenzy of cheers and standing ovation. The chair lowered to where the guest seat would normally sit, the space vacated for Robert's imminent arrival.

Sammy strutted and goaded everyone. He waved his arms towards Robert, like a flight controller guiding a fighter plane onto an aircraft carrier. To complete his theatrical introduction he dropped to one knee and continued to conduct the jet wave in maneuver. Four seconds later, he leaped to his feet, swept his hair back in an exaggerated gesture, and walked to his seat, the distance bridged by oversized strides.

The crowd didn't break their applause until after several requests. Finally, when they'd cheered for a minute, they allowed him to start the interview.

"Wow!" Sammy exclaimed. The crowd clapped again for a few seconds, shadowed by spontaneous hoots. "Wow! Are we honored, or what!"

After more whistles, he asked, "Everyone knows you as the boss. Is it okay if I call you Boss?"

Robert smiled broadly, raised his right arm, and opened his palm to the sky, nodding with a shrug.

Sammy pointed both fingers at Robert and smiled at the crowd. "Is this man cool?" The audience cheered again. "Tell me, Boss, many claimed you'd never amount to anything. Even your own father said you were, and I'm quoting him here, the biggest fizz that ever amounted to nothing. And look at you now! What do you say to those people?"

Robert nodded again and shrugged, sporting a smirk he failed to stop becoming a wide and silly grin, no matter how hard he fought to be cool. Sammy jumped in to fill the silence, "Well, you don't have to answer. Do you, Boss! The fools didn't understand your brilliance. But, in their defense, it requires talent to recognize talent!"

When the crowd roared again, Nancy appeared on stage.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled.

Her coarse interruption jerked Robert from his indulgent fantasy. Open-mouthed, a bemused look wrote large across his face. Slowly, his mouth shut, and his chin crinkled as his jaw tightened. "How dare you!"

"How dare _you_!" As she yelled, the surrounding set collapsed, torn down by a compression wave that physically ripped Robert from his throne. The force tossed him ten yards through the air against the stage's rear wall. Too angry to notice what she'd done, her expression didn't change from red-faced fury.

Robert struggled to stand but lost his footing and only managed a backward crab walk. Speechless, his mouth hung open again, as if he owned no jaw muscles. Without moving his eyes from her, he scrambled to find a more dignified posture. His feet only slipped on the set's floor. So he crashed to his backside, his face frozen in disbelief.

To participants, the Strat's physics were as immutable as the real world. Nobody should've possessed her abilities.

Her rage continued. "I was assaulted on a mission for you. For you, you shit. I was left for dead, to be raped and then murdered by vile filthy animals,animals that'd call themselves men. You call yourself a man. Is this what men do? Play games while their women work, dangerous, dirty work? Are you a man? Well are you, are you?"

Robert attempted to fumble to his feet.

She yelled, "Sit down!" Another powerful shockwave blasted through the air, knocking Robert onto his backside, again.

"They took my money, and then they took the heater."

"They?" Robert asked meekly.

"Were you listening, idiot? The Waltham animals."

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure? Sure! You're fucking kidding. They stood over me, their rifles in my face, closer than you, undoing their pants, their stinking, filthy breath falling on me. Am I sure? You must be kidding. The scum died on top of me. Actually on me. His brains spilled over me. But you can't see because you're in this stupid pretend world, pulling yourself off. In reality, you'd see my pain. If you lived in the real world, you might even care. But you don't. You aren't even one of those animals. You're nothing but a wet dream dreaming a dream. But I'll tell you something, you worthless shit. I'll burn this world of yours to the ground if you don't move against Waltham before next nightfall. Then I'll burn you."

Robert scrambled to his feet again, this time successfully. He remained silent. Nancy finished with one last barb. "Don't even think about trying to murder me. I'm not alone, I had help tonight."

# Chapter 18 – A White Flag

May 20, 2057, 1:02 a.m. – Allston

Nancy regularly worked the two to ten morning watch. Last night she considered demanding Robert relieve her of this shift. However, revenge against Waltham eclipsed her desire to punish him. She couldn't risk Waltham escaping justice because a guard failed to keep a proper lookout.

Usually she slept well before duty. Years of long and late work hardened her body. But, in the quiet night that followed her attack, she'd become restless. Endless hours punctuated by frustrated rolls and turns didn't deliver sleep. A comfortable position eluded her.

For ages, she relived the trauma, chastising herself for imagined failures. More than anything, she craved to face the man who threatened her harm, to make him pay. But when she fantasized how she'd respond, the prospect of seeing him again terrified her, and she hoped that Gus had killed both men. She spent the entire night vacillating between rage and terror. Sleep drifted over her intermittently, never clearly announcing its arrival or departure.

At 1:36 a.m., she stopped staring at her alarm clock. Before it bleated at her, she slapped the off switch. She dressed in warm clothes, took a quick bite of bland stodge, and headed into the darkness.

Nancy's mood rose and fell as she wavered between anxiety and apprehension over her guard duty. There were three possibilities. All would unfold at the main gate. Waltham might propose a peace treaty. Such an envoy would arrive with a white flag, probably alone. They'd approach the entrance to ensure their intentions appeared peaceful. They'd be a senior person, authorized to negotiate terms, and as a conciliatory gesture, they'd offer an expensive "gift" for the town.

Alternatively, Waltham might do nothing. Maybe they were ignorant of her ordeal. Perhaps her attackers acted alone. But she knew reality wouldn't be so simple. Joe and his offsider were traders. Waltham would soon discover and act upon their absence. Most likely, Waltham would register their absence early that morning, and given Nancy was the last person they would've logged in their trade book, then logically, they would've retraced her path and found the abandoned heater.

It was also conceivable Robert attempted to negotiate peace with Waltham shortly after she'd castigated him. The prospect re-sparked her fury. She accused him of cowardice in her mind before he could commit the sin in reality.

Finally, there was a remote possibility Waltham would attack in force, a pre-emptive strike. The gate was the only suitable target given their resources, which made aggression unlikely.

Allston possessed an exceptional defensive posture. The river protected its northern perimeter, and a formidable wall covered the rest. Consequently, the southern entrance enjoyed the irony of being the town's main strength and weakness. Like a funnel, it'd draw the enemy into a bottleneck. Once trapped, Allston could concentrate its firepower on the small target.

She considered the possibilities briefly but abandoned abstract worries. What _happened_ mattered more than what _might_ happen. Logic and objectivity drifted away. As she leaned on the tower's plate iron shield, enveloped by darkness, with a bracing cold wind blowing hard enough to cut through her jacket, she reran the tormented thoughts that kept her awake in the hours before duty. Imagined arguments replayed until they became quiet voices, and eventually disappeared.

Exhaustion sapped her will to churn over her torment, and once her brain stopped trying, her body finally relaxed. For a while, she scanned the darkness for danger, in an attempt to remain focused on revenge. But as time stretched, sore legs made the plastic seat too inviting to ignore. So she relented. Once seated, she slid farther into her chair, until her mind emptied, and her worries about keeping watch disappeared, as if they'd never existed.

Above, pinpricks of light punctured blackness. The cold wind cleared the atmosphere sufficiently to allow one hundred stars to cut through the haze. Slumped, she watched for eons, until she sensed the earth rotating under her as the constellations crawled in an arc across the night sky.

Her legs became heavier, melding with the steel deck on which her feet planted, rigid and immovable. The world assumed a remote quality, as if viewed through a set of binocular's wrong end. Like a detached observer, she scrutinized herself, ostensibly from afar. A strange sensation. It would've made her anxious, if she hadn't disconnected. Time passed as if in eternity.

She observed herself observing the heavens. She contemplated the far-flung balls of burning gas, other worlds, an infinity away. An unreachable destination. Maybe, if life existed beyond earth, they thrived rather than survived. She hoped both things were true.

Slowly, she slid into a trance. Its warm embrace comforted her, and she continued to fall, undisturbed, until the first light of dawn arrived and washed out the stars she'd focused upon with such empty intent.

As the sun rose, the air warmed, and the wind stopped. Emotionally drained, she soaked in the heat. Reclined in a deckchair, with absent thoughts, her care for duty vanished. She sagged in her seat on the lookout for nearly two hours until a distant call rudely interrupted her solitude.

Startled, she spilled from the chair, jumped to her feet, missed her footing, and came disastrously close to spilling over the bulwark. Ahead the voice returned, with clarity.

Her heart bounced from a peaceful rhythm to a fast pound. Instinctively, she reached for the rifle. As she retrieved the bolt to load a round, her vulnerability became obvious. While the intruder remained invisible, she was hauled up high on the tower, where they'd spot her easily.

She ducked behind cover, placed the gun carefully against the rusted bulkhead, and scurried backward. Even though the wall now blocked her view, her gaze's vector remained unchanged, as if to turn invited attack. Head frozen in place, she swatted the air behind her until a canvas bag fell to grip. It made a soft sound as she pulled it to her. She ferreted through the duty supplies, groping for the binoculars.

At first fear kept her below the rampart. A minute later, like a flicked switch, Nancy returned to her disembodied state. A dark corner of her mind sensed she'd reached her stress tolerance's limits and handed control of her body over to another section of her brain, a part that wouldn't freeze or fight without thinking.

In front, a streaked brown metal wall blocked her view. Slowly, her eyes rose above the jagged edge. Time and weather failed to soften the rough oxy cut. Binoculars in hand, she surveyed the streets and peered towards the voice's apparent source. A man appeared as he turned onto the main road that led to the gate. He waved a white flag hung from a wooden pole with long deliberate sweeps of his arm, yelling, "Hello."

"Halt!"

The man complied.

The world became still as she frantically searched for signs of movement. Anything to show the stranger had company. The evidence didn't exist. Yet, it seemed improbable Waltham arranged a diplomatic response within twelve hours. Too much organization required. She told herself this was their plan, a prelude to attack. _They'll try to trick me into opening the gate doors with their phony peace offer. Then storm the entrance._

Even the prospect of a legitimate proposal made her furious. Her mind raged at the possibility they believed they could apologize. No compensation would be adequate. They might as well spit in her face. _What right do they own to bring a white flag?_

Fury reached a rapid boil as she envisaged their attempts to seek forgiveness. She imagined their paltry proposals with righteous red-hot rage. Without considering her actions' meaning or consequence, she grabbed the rifle and peered down the scope. She wished to scrutinize this individual who sought to purchase a pardon with a few trinkets for her town boss.

Down the road, the man continued to wave his flag. Long sweeps arched overhead, fluttered from right to left hip. When he slowed, she zoomed on his face. Rough shaven and thin. When his spectacles flashed white, like a mirror to the sun, she realized her rifle's lens had reflected in his glasses.

He froze. A second later, he sprung to life. The flagpole dropped; his hand reached for his holstered pistol. It never moved more than twenty degrees from his hip. A bullet cracked through the still morning air. It entered his chest, ripped through his heart, and exited his body before burying in the bitumen behind him.

Dumbfounded, Nancy lowered her rifle. She didn't remember pulling the trigger. But clearly she had. Her head darted back and forth as she desperately searched for proof the man wasn't alone, hoping and wishing she found something, anything. For ten minutes, she visually hunted the vicinity. But all remained still.

Nothing changed, except a dead man beside a white flag. A horrible truth consumed her. Perhaps she'd killed him without reason. Didn't that make her a murderer? She shook uncontrollably until her subconscious recognized she'd neither the experience nor maturity to handle the situation's gravity.

Once again, she disconnected; her body became a puppet to a stranger in her mind. Peace followed. Calm now, she searched for evidence the residents reacted to the gunfire. Binoculars revealed no movement. Satisfied, she slid down the tower's ladder. Her boots squealed against metal smoothed to silver by repeated use. Dust billowed with the thud as she hit the ground. She slapped the dirt from her thighs and walked towards the dead man.

Although suffering disassociation, the sight horrified her. A human lay in a pool of his own semi-congealed blood. Open eyes stared skyward. She turned away. The horror of it made her want to flee. But running was cowardly and short sighted. So, she reconsidered the situation.

Options raced through her head in a dusty whirlwind. Nothing remained static long enough to solidify as logic. The harder she tried, the more reason spun into greater confusion. A voice told her to keep it simple, and in that moment, from the maelstrom, she decided on staging an attack. She'd say she caught a scout spying, that she'd shot him, just before he was about to shoot her.

As her thoughts progressed, she convinced herself this was the best solution. The scenario replayed mentally, until she persuaded herself she had acted in self-defense.

With the matter settled, she reached down to grab the flagpole. A white flag wouldn't sit well with her story, so she needed to get rid of it. As she leaned down, her gaze fell upon the fabric. The corner had soaked the man's blood. Its crimson edge hypnotized her. Frozen in a crouched position with her hand still clutching the pole, she watched the red wick up the cloth through the rough open weave. She forced herself to disengage.

Flag in tow, she sprinted for the first building. But when she glanced back, the wall appeared close, and she decided to push farther. She ran down Cambridge Street, ducked right along an intersection, and continued until confident she found a spot where the evidence would remain undiscovered.

When Allston's defenses lay hidden behind the two-story houses, she dropped it on the sidewalk. The pole clattered on concrete, and her mind whispered, _What if they find it?_ Cranky at her inability to move on, she returned, grabbed it again with a loud huff, and continued. To her left she saw a crumbled house covered in vines. _This will do._

The front door collapsed against her shoulder. Cobwebs joined every space within the building, drooped under the weight of accumulated dust. Like wet cotton stretched thin to a single fiber, hung to dry and forgotten, left to glisten in the refracted luminescence. Below the spiders' busy work, unruly and spindly plants fought for light.

It reminded her of the cupcake store, minus cupcakes. No one had reason to come here, but for certainty, she tip-toed over the rotted floor, stepping on timbers that appeared solid from their sheen, like stones in a soft muddy river, and proceeded towards a dark hole in the ground at the house's far end.

Stairs led into the blackness. She took a few tentative steps into the shadows. The damp boards creaked and bowed under foot. Below, the basement lay still and impenetrable. Only echoes suggested movement. Something in the darkness compelled her farther. She understood the cellar was empty. But it frightened her. The fear arrived like a madness and coaxed her deeper, urging her to act against reason. Her eyes didn't adjust, and the cold room's contents remained inscrutable. For the briefest moment, she hovered in the sharp line between light and dark, until she hurled the white flag into the blackness. The pole echoed, thin timber on wet concrete. A soft _whack_ reached from nothingness. She turned and ran.

Heart pounding, she breathed deep and attempted to refocus on the important job: dealing with the corpse. She contemplated scenarios as she raced. The best solution was to position the body in a sniper stance, in a building that overlooked the gate.

When she returned and discovered how difficult it was to move him, she chose a more modest plan.

The only viable option was to roll him onto his stomach and put a rifle in his hand. If she tried moving him, she'd drag a blood trail from the torso to its destination. When she tugged his arm, it became obvious her worries were redundant. She couldn't budge the corpse.

Nancy heaved at the carcass. It flopped over, a red puddle beside him. It looked unnatural, like she'd moved him. She hauled on his jacket sleeve until she'd dragged him over his own blood. _Next job; find a rifle, one with a scope._ His pistol wouldn't suffice for her cover up.

_Details, details, so many details!_ Again, she felt a steady panic rise in her stomach. She glanced at her watch, 8:35 a.m. An hour to locate a believable weapon, plant it, return to her post, get her story right, resolve any loose ends, and finally raise the alarm. She concluded it was better to use her rifle. If she stole anyone else's, they might recognize it, and they'd report it missing. She definitely couldn't use the duty watch weapon.

Decision made, she sprinted home. Every few hundred yards, she paused to catch her breath. Each time she stopped, she used the opportunity to ensure she remained alone. Then her head would slump, as she grabbed her knees and gasped in spluttering mouthfuls of air. A little over an hour later, she finished the return trip and positioned the "sniper" with her rifle in his hands.

She planned to fire the round by squeezing the trigger using the man's finger. As she stooped to shoot, she realized it required her to kneel in the man's blood. She stood abruptly and accidentally dropped the gun. For a moment she stared, and the rifle seemed to stare back. Thick crimson still oozed from the man's chest, a slow spreading tide. Before it could reach out and taint the weapon's stock, she bent, snatched it up, and fired a shot at the guard tower. She quickly returned it to the dead man's hands. His fingers felt flaccid and meaty, and the sensation made her wince.

_Now run!_ Unfit, she only managed a hundred yards before cramps stabbed her side. Palm to her waist, she pushed on, the pain a welcome distraction from the macabre task. But soon agony displaced her anxiety; her shin bone seemed ready to split. _Keep pushing._ As her strength diminished, her gaze lowered, until she ran staring at the ground.

Concentration vanished when she tried to grasp it. A believable story required events to transpire in a specific sequence. When her head rose, the wall appeared. She'd already reached it. With the last of her energy, she scaled the guard tower, retrieved her other rifle, aimed at the street ahead, and fired.

Above the main gate sat an old bell. A ton of cast copper. Caught in indecision, she waited a few moments. It couldn't be un-rung. Once she pulled the rope, she no longer controlled events. Yet, as she looked down to the body, she realized she'd lost control long ago. So she grabbed the braided cord and heaved, setting in motion the series of pulleys and counterweights needed to transform her effort into a force strong enough to hammer the clapper into the bell's lip.

Dong... dong... dong...

For a full minute, Nancy tugged the bell's rope. Then, unable to deduce the potential repercussions, she braced for whatever would unfold.

# Chapter 19 – Hallucination

May 20, 2057, 6:08 a.m. – Allston

"Who is that?" Logan tried to open her eyes. She sensed someone above. But focus eluded her. Vague shapes and colors hovered and swam around her field of vision in violent rolling circles. Color blotches appeared, expanded, and faded. A voice sounded. Barely comprehensible words came to her as if they'd traveled a great distance from a deep, faraway cave.

Blackness returned. Hours passed in an instant caught inside eternity.

A sense of danger, imminent but undefinable, provided the adrenaline required to seek escape. The plasterboard walls thudded as she clawed through the hallway. She banged her skull along the wall as she attempted to revive clarity. Then it came; urgency without explanation.

Hide!

After she pulled herself beneath the dwelling, she relapsed into unconsciousness. When she waked, dazed and uncertain, she no longer recalled the journey. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the haze that muddled her mind. _The bed. I slid from bed. Then the steps. But why climb under the house?_

Stretched on her stomach, the earth beneath her and the floorboards above, she tried to crab forward in the tight space. Heavy timber bearers chocked on piers ran parallel every two yards, forcing her lower. Loaded with dust and cobwebs, they weighed on her without end. Her head rose slightly. It banged into the hardwood. Blunt pain returned her gaze to the dirt.

Raw earth pressed into her. She clawed at the ground. The cold clay balled in her hands. She excavated a handful and let it drop. The sweet scent of soured soil filled the air, untouched by the sun for decades, entombed by the house above.

Ahead, the light shone so brightly that it painted the external world white. A rectangle of dazzled brightness, floating miles away. With progress measured in inches, she dragged onward. Shadows shortened. Dark streaks flickered and flashed, as if played in fast forward.

When the shadows pivoted to the opposite direction and elongated again, lucidity arrived. _I've been under this house the whole time._

Determined, she pushed ahead again. _My son, I must get to my son._ The clarity that'd found her briefly, disappeared. Only the task remained. The ten-yard journey to sunshine expended the remaining afternoon. When the warmer open air blew on her face, she realized she'd escaped the crawl space. But the sun already touched the horizon.

In dwindling light, she drifted to unconsciousness. Coldness clutched her when she came around. It took five minutes for her to realize her vision failed; she'd become blind. She rolled over. A detached pain dug into her. When she reached down, her side felt wet. A hidden object blocked her advance as if it tugged her. She tried crying. Nothing... Eyes squinted in agony. As she pressed ahead, a ripping sensation seemed to radiate from her stomach. Warmth followed. Whatever gripped her had released.

A minute later, her sight returned. Blurred vision drifted into focus, and in that moment, the stillness caught her attention, and she gazed skyward. _Stars. So many. More than normal._ She tried to scan the path she'd traveled. _How did I get here?_

The sky spun in a delirium, meandering on clarity's edge, and as it wound tighter, cognitive blackness followed.

An enormous boom ripped her from an imagination purged of thoughts. _Where am I now? The stars are still out. So cold. My son. He must be in danger. I need Gus. Only he can help._

Gunfire sounded. _Fireworks?_ The sound vanished, and she wondered if she dreamed it all along. Each second that passed increased her doubt, until she crossed a great mental threshold and accepted her mind had conjured more than just the noise.

The ground seemed to move of its own accord beneath her, as if she hovered. At one point she stopped to lift her head, as high as her strength allowed. From the ditch she saw a familiar tree, a stunted old oak. Its main limbs hung down, connected by a few timber strands. Lightning shattered it years ago.

_This is real. My mind can't create such detail. Gus's house, I'm going to Gus. Halfway... Only halfway._ The thought devastated her, until she remembered the professor's advice. _Progress only comes when you push past the impossible._

For hours Logan grasped a handful of dirt at a time, pulling her small frame forward with equally thin arms. _One inch farther._ Moments of awareness appeared and vanished. Once, she woke believing she floated on light. It surrounded her, bathing her in intense whiteness. It was the oppressive midday sun that burned her flesh as she stared from her back to the sky with unblinking eyes. She'd regain consciousness, move, and drift away.

Like signposts bobbing on a sea, she recognized a road here, a house there, a bush. The signs confirmed she followed the correct path, drawing her closer to Gus.

Thirst grabbed at her throat. Water consumed all her thoughts. _A long, cold tumbler of crystal clear water. With ice cubes! I haven't drank that for a decade._ As she progressed, her mind wandered. _What makes ice?_ Rocks, gravel, and glass cut at her without concern while she mulled over the question. Pain registered as if shouted from another owner, distant and disconnected.

Her thirst, however, demanded attention. _A fridge makes ice! I had one eight years ago. When it stopped working no one knew how to fix it. No one cared anyway. Trade for one, they told me. Ha! Right, with what?_

She sensed herself drift down a long slope. On reaching the bottom, a strange sensation enveloped her hand. Cold pressure, tingling. She pulled her palm to her face. Water. It must be water. A repulsive odor wafted. _Where is that coming from?_ She tried to sniff the air, but it remained inscrutable.

It didn't matter. She slid down into the liquid and gulped it furiously. Seconds later she vomited. It tasted of the stench. Realization struck. _I've fallen in a sewer._ She kept vomiting long after her stomach emptied, strength diminishing with each heave.

Like a candle at its wick's end, expiration became inevitable. In the stink she no longer fought, strewn across an earth that didn't care, she welcomed surrender. She could die here. She wouldn't resist. _But what about Ryan? He'll perish without me. You must push. Push!_

The memory of his birth gave her the courage to continue. _The pain. I survived that. I can survive this._ Heels dug into the mud, she edged sideways, scribing a slow circle. The slush spun underneath her gradually, until at last her head faced away from the shallow ditch into which the nearby house fed its waste.

She pressed her feet into the sludge and shoved. She heaved; her stomach dragged on the ground. Torn dress and flesh, she scaled the mound in inches. At the summit, she raised on all fours, crawled five yards until the earth dipped again, and rolled into long grass, away from the effluent.

Darkness returned. When she realized night arrived, she couldn't deduce if it'd been dark for hours or minutes. For a while, she believed she lay in bed, and all the anguish would disappear upon opening her eyes. Then a tumble, a broken bottle, or rock slicing her flesh cut past delirium.

The pain didn't hurt. But she recognized it should. In her mind's furthest recesses, her brain instructed her body to react. So it woke her. As she came to, her imagination invented explanations, ones less harsh than reality. _I've only just left home. I must be sick. Where is my bed?_

Thirty yards farther on, she rolled into another wet ditch. This one contained water, real water. She lapped at it greedily. It energized her. For an hour, she laid at the trench, drinking, vomiting, falling back into darkness, and then her mind awakened and reminded her to drink again _. I could die at this puddle and be happy._

The sky stretched large above her, flawless black _. It truly is beautiful._ She considered Ryan, and duty. As she climbed away from the pool on her stomach, a strange sense of panic and grief gripped at her. Not for her situation, but that she chose to abandon a small slice of happiness, the water. Then reason replaced irrational thoughts. Reenergized, she rose and plodded on her knees and palms.

When she reached Gus's place, it seemed she'd trawled the dirt her entire life. _His house. I'm here._ "Gus..." Her voice sounded little louder than a squeak. "Gus..." She slapped the concrete step. _No one will come._ She cried, but only a weak spluttered cough followed, hopeless and hollow. _This is it. I can't do anymore._ She collapsed.

# Chapter 20 – The Coup

May 20, 2057, 8:00 a.m. – Old Kennedy Airport, New York

Carl Gunther became euphoric in the days following his meeting with Katharine. Finally, he found a path to power, a sustainable one.

Elected the Governor of New York on an epidemic of hate-fueled entitlement, he'd sacrificed policy options for short-term political influence. In the election's closing moments, he whipped his followers into a hysterical state, using every conspiracy theory he could conjure to apportion blame and laying it on anyone except his current audience.

Public speaking always injected him with adrenaline. Often, he'd become so enamored with his own stories that he'd forget the difference between lies and facts. But like all good politicians, he accounted for the truths that might undo him. Before he met Katharine he understood he'd be in trouble once he took office. He couldn't deliver on any of his promises.

Where apathy killed politics everywhere else, numbers necessitated it in New York. Citizens couldn't work in isolation and return to the Strat, unimpeded by social customs. The city festered with unavoidable human interaction, a million souls crowded into squalid living conditions that deteriorated daily.

Private space didn't exist. Consequently, politics permeated all aspects of civic life, and people hated that almost more than they hated each other.

Carl played discontent with the dexterity of an accomplished musician. Before his election he understood every victory reduced his options should he win. Two things compelled him down a path of narrowing choices. He coveted power, but it only came to him through negativity.

Bereft of vision to guide the city's citizens forward, he could only draw them inward and backward, to encourage them to fight over imagined foes and manufactured hurt.

The card Katharine presented him played perfectly to his strength. She laid out someone to blame, and with it, an easy path to victory. Now, behind the podium, in the place known as New York Central, Carl felt a rising force that moved up through his body, promising to deliver him everything he ever dreamed for himself.

Previously, he'd contemplated giving this address in the Strat. But he concluded it ineffectual. The heat, the discomfort, the pressed sweaty bodies, damp and odorous, a thousand voices' ringing hum—all of these were Carl's friends. He used the different colors of negative experiences to paint a masterpiece of hate.

By 8:00 a.m. the crowds surged. The speech would begin at ten. To ensure maximum attendance, he canceled duties and shut down electricity to all except essential services. Without power the StratSuits were useless. Faced with a choice between sitting in a squalid apartment and attending the rally, most chose the latter.

By 9:30 a.m., the old Kennedy Airport almost filled. Over one hundred thousand people waited for the address. By ten, a sea of souls covered the main runway. Citizens squeezed into every vantage point, including rooftops, balconies, and windows.

Carl was an impossibly hilarious caricature of the man least likely to inspire a following. He resembled an old Toby Jug more than a savior. His appearance extended beyond the superficial.

From his manicured hair to his pompous and over-tailored clothing, the image he projected reflected poor character. Self-absorbed, he habitually referred to himself in the third person. Everything about his presentation was comical. Yet here he was, facing a massive crowd that waited for one man, this man, him.

A gust lifted his hair. It floated like an oversized parachute, threatening to expose a hairless crown. Miraculously, it snapped back in time to protect its secret. He looked like a silent movie's bumbling lead. The people didn't care. If anything, they'd only take such ridiculous claims seriously if uttered by a clown.

It was hot, and he was nervous. Sweat beads traced the rotund outline of his face and joined temporarily under one of his many chins before breaking free and dripping to the ground. Silently he counted to three and began.

"Good people of New York."

He repeated the phrase until the crowd became quiet. Finally, after ten long minutes waiting for the masses to subdue, he started his speech.

"On this hot spring morning, in our city, earth's last city, I bring great news."

He flung his arms open. "We own a bright future. You've unlocked this destiny, not me. Look around. Everyone present has worked hard to make this metropolis. And what is this creation? It's us. But it's also more. It's our final chance. We must succeed. Outside our walls is barbarism, ruled by rapists, murders, and thieves. Inside is civilization... order."

Carl tapped at the lectern with a stiff index finger. It echoed against the mic. "Yet sneaking doubt rips my mind nightly. Is this civilization's pinnacle? If so, why bother? Should we surrender the walls to animals?"

His shoulders shrugged. "Such questions are forgivable. When faced with toil paid by squalor, the best of us consider abandoning the city. But what if your sacrifices were unnecessary? What if you were robbed? Would this surprise or anger you? More importantly, what would you do with this thief? Welcome them back?

"Does civilization require passiveness? No! We must show strength of will, not just strength of purpose. We must defend our culture. But talk isn't enough. You must act. Every criminal we punish stops ten others. So who are these crooks? The answer is shocking. They're everywhere. Unlike previous administrations, we act swiftly with exacting precision. We won't be filling the prisons. Prison is where scumbags go to laugh at the rule of law.

"I've deployed a special police force. One I've created, especially to hunt lowlife rats. The vermin is being corralled as I speak. So what species of rat do you think I found?"

Highly agitated, the crowd's sounds surged above the throng in waves. The words Carl spoke were gibberish, but combined with theatrical delivery, he transformed a babbling script into a symphony of hate. He plugged directly into his audience's most base instincts—which demanded someone else to blame for their squalid lifestyle.

***

Katharine watched the proceedings from a three-story building she secured after Carl told her about his rally. She'd asked to see his speech in advance. But he deflected, claiming he was still writing it, but would pass it on when he finished. He never provided a copy. So his approach and tone surprised her.

Visibly shaken, Katharine realized she'd underestimated Carl's political ability and overestimated his integrity. She also understood he outmaneuvered her, probably terminally.

It all headed one direction. Matters now tipped irrevocably over an abyss. Panic and loss consumed her. Things would soon unravel. If she wanted to exit, she'd need to move fast.

Briefly she considered leaving. But it smacked of betrayal. It was worse than surrender. It'd be cowardice. At minimum she believed she must bear witness to events. She understood its price and that, later, she'd be unwilling to pay. Nevertheless, she decided to stay.

She fumbled for her coms device. Her former Security Team Leader, now General Grant Redman, gave it to her many years ago. It provided an unbreakable encrypted link directly between her and Grant, an important and rare item in an era where secure communications were almost non-existent.

A few days back, Grant led the arrest of virtually all senior military staff. They waited in a high-security prison facility for a court martial to decide their fate. She considered it an opportunity to reduce corruption and restore the rule of law. The irony wasn't lost on her.

The coms device bleated. Each ring rose her anxiety. When Grant finally answered, she blurted out, "Where are you? Do you know what's happening?"

"I'm at Riverhead conducting training."

"What? Why?"

"On Carl's orders."

"Why would a general teach?"

"Carl wanted me to identify potential senior leaders."

"And how many leaders did you find?" she asked sarcastically.

"None. He duped us."

"Really! He's about to commit a terrible crime. Fly to the prison and see what Carl's done with them. Hurry."

"We must evacuate you first."

"No. Go to the prison."

"There's been a lot of worrying gossip. And you are clearly worried. These situations turn sour fast. We must get you immediately."

"No. I can't be responsible for more death. Leave, that's an order."

"Yes, ma'am."

The coms went silent. She slumped. Carl still ranted. But she stopped listening. Outside, the crowd's jeers and cheers rose and fell like waves crashing rhythmically against a rocky cliff. As she waited, she tapped her fingernails on the table, at first unconsciously from nervousness, then later for the distraction.

She fiddled with her coms device to check it remained powered. Her mind wandered as she reflected on the effort she expended on her vision. In her dreams she imagined a repaired society given a second chance. All the compromises she made to reach this point washed around her head. Now the point seemed pointless, and she wondered if she'd enabled a monster's rise.

Perhaps her father was correct. Maybe the Strat couldn't support progress. She doubted it'd even slow the last city's slide into complete self-destruction.

Years ago, the professor told her that everything struggled to achieve equilibrium. Artificial imbalance caused harsh correction. The more it's resisted, the harsher the eventual reaction. He said to change a system you couldn't force a new symmetry. You must destroy the system itself.

For the longest time she didn't grasp her father's perspective. She dismissed his opinion as an old man's ravings. Now, however, she worried he was right, that there's no reforming, taming, or controlling the Strat. The answer was simple.

If you want civil society, people must be civil. How could a tool that alienates, unite?

She laughed at herself, wondering why clarity only arrived after a crisis, when its powers were limited to improving your view as a spectator.

Below her, milling in the crowd, an old woman's tattered crimson dress reignited a childhood memory. Even at five years of age, she understood her father differed on many levels. The two of them were seated in a restaurant, at a round table covered by crisp linen. Fluted glasses and heavy cutlery, golden silver. In the table's center, a candle, and a rose in a jade colored vase. A waiter delivered soup in bone-white bowls, held by gloved hands.

The night made her feel special, and she sat upright, stiff and proud, the chair's glossy black Japanese lacquer slats, thin and elegant, standing high above her head. As she scanned the room, she noticed the couples and remembered she had no mother, just a father.

The lady seated near her wore a sundress, same color as the rose. Both beautiful and young. Katharine fantasized she was her mom. But as she watched, the daydream soured. No one talked. Not the red woman or anyone else. Every couples' heads bowed, phones in hand. Fingers flicked endlessly through a parade of pointless pixels. The first steps on a long march towards civil extinction, walked in one-inch sweeps over touchscreens. Even as a child the adults' behavior seemed wrong.

Decades passed with the social trajectory unchanged. If the printers were the ultimate expression of commodification, the transformation of all social relationships into objects of consumption, then the Strat represented the final destination in the fossilization of the human psyche.

As she considered her past, the rise and collapse of the printers, and the Strat's ascendancy, she contemplated her role, and guilt. In a consumer world, could've the Strat achieved anything other than enabling pathological worldwide narcissism? Katharine concluded no.

# Chapter 21 – Three Possibilities

May 20, 2057, 9:43 a.m. – Allston Admin

"What the hell's going on?" Robert blasted down the radio at Nancy.

"Waltham's attacking."

"How many?"

"One, so far."

"One?"

"Yes, one. It's obviously a recon before the full assault."

"We'll be there shortly."

Robert slammed the microphone down and sounded the general alarm. A _whhhaaarrrppppp_ sound followed, shrill and repetitive. Despite limited drills, the residents understood their duty.

Two years ago a resident failed to attend a muster following the siren. After Robert ranted at the assembled crowd, he dispatched three men to locate the offender. They'd returned fifty minutes later, a seriously ill man slumped in a wheelbarrow, his limbs spilled over the side, flopping and bouncing with the wheelbarrow's movements. From a distance he looked dead. But closer in, the sweat that saturated his body was clearly written in free flowing beads of water that welled to his skin's surface. He muttered indecipherable words that rose and fell in pitch as if possessed by a sudden urgency that just as quickly dissipated.

A short court martial found him guilty of being AWOL, a crime subject to capital punishment. When he failed to utter a sensible defense, the embarrassing farce forced Robert to show mercy. He banished the ill man and his barrow to the dead grass beyond the gate. However, a bullet would've been kinder. Left outside without food or water, warmth or care, he sweltered under the hot sun and shivered through the nights.

Four days later dehydration and exposure finished him. His death served a purpose. The residents understood punctuality's importance. Virtually no one, however, bothered to act on the broader lesson. Namely, spend the effort required to stockpile basic medicines.

Men, women, and six adolescents, formed into their fighting groups as they arrived at Admin. Each group's leader reported to Robert. He then counted the number of leaders with full units. A Division in Allston comprised twenty to thirty people. There were ten Divisions totaling 231 individuals. Descriptions shriveled in the post-printer world. Like everything else, even meaning imploded.

Regardless, numbers mattered. According to his intelligence, Waltham could deploy three hundred residents of fighting age, which meant anyone over twelve years old. Firepower was also decisive. Aside from converting the living to dead, it rendered nearby enemies inert by imposing primal dread. Outnumbered three to two, and with weapons such as the train cannon, Waltham beat Allston in the battle for blood and fear without firing a single round.

As he gripped the radio speaker tight enough to choke it, he spat demands for status updates. Only Nancy reported contact. Furthermore, she detected no new contacts. He considered this attack illogical. Enemies should hit hard before the town could solidify its defense. They shouldn't dribble in. _Perhaps last night's drama spooked Nancy? Maybe she mistook an animal for a person?_

Speculation gave way to anger. Yesterday's humiliation lay fresh in his thoughts. Now that he'd called everyone to arms, if she'd made a mistake, he'd look like a fool in front of the entire town. His fists tightened. _I'll wring her bloody neck._

He wanted to march to her tower and slap her. As he leaned over to turn the alarm off his fingers paused on the switch. He mulled the possibilities in repetitive loops, until one caught. _Perhaps it's a ruse... Waltham feigned an assault to draw our forces south. Then they'll attack in force elsewhere._

The thought made him snort involuntarily. _If they knew how much Allston's defenses thinned, they'd overrun us._

He tried to weigh the situation, subjecting known facts to logical deduction. Three points stuck. Print was becoming scarcer, Waltham had become more aggressive, and Allston's existence threatened them. The danger increased with time. He always believed they'd strike at some point. _So why not now?_

While he waited for the town to mobilize, the question brewed in his mind. Emotion is every decision's mother, even logical ones. Before he could deploy reason to support choice, he needed to adjust emotionally to new possibilities. Within a minute he concluded they did face imminent danger. Logically, Waltham would attack while they still outgunned Allston.

He cursed his complacency. Guard duties had become thin. It was his fault. He prayed to an entity in which he didn't believe. If God saved him, he'd change.

The first division formed up within five minutes. He sent them south, to support Nancy. The second lot mustered soon after, which he also dispatched immediately, but to the North Gate. The remaining divisions came from houses on the town's outskirts. They'd take at least a quarter of an hour to arrive.

Seconds lingered longer than entitled. He radioed all sentry points, demanding another update. As he waited he drummed his fingers on the desk, snapping at the guards' slow response after they finally replied. Impatient, he stood and moved from the radio to peer out Admin's streaked and dusty window, towards the residents assembling.

It wouldn't be his first fight. But now, in his late forties, death seemed more real. Its presence no longer held any promise. Whispers of glory became cold threats. Fear tugged at him. But he knew he must hide weakness. Anxiety was contagious.

Robert often resented being the boss. It meant owning much responsibility for no reward. Obligations came with extra working hours, time better spent in the Strat. Although he desired to shirk leadership's burden, he believed he'd no choice.

He'd witnessed towns fall under inept leaders. Ten years ago, he decided to grow old. But he found no one who inspired confidence, or even trust. So he seized the leadership role, not through desire but necessity. He long reconciled to the decision, but it still fueled frayed resentment. A festered sore covered by a thin scab.

Time for action arrived. The residents had mustered. A sigh escaped his lips. He shuffled to the exit, braced himself, and then hit the airlock's green open button. The doors hissed, and he emerged, stomped down the stairs, and marched to the parade ground's head.

He inspected the motley ranks with the intensity of a disheveled castaway cataloguing rocks on a desert island. From the old parking lot's edge, where a path cut a tunnel through low trees, he saw Gus shuffle towards them. Cane in hand, he looked like a slow and broken milling machine of swinging feet and arms. Five minutes later, Gus arrived, gasping and sweating profusely.

A scowl etched Robert's face. He strode to the Division Gus joined, paced the straggling lines, and zeroed on Gus. "There's only ten seconds standing between your neck and a noose. We don't carry passengers here. Pull your weight, or leave."

Gus's bent frame unfurled slightly. Silent, he fixed Robert with a gaze of unrepentant menace, the look of a man that intended harm. Taken back, Robert broke eye contact.

At the twenty-minute mark, Robert blasted an obnoxious air horn. Anyone that failed to gather must be under ten years old, on guard duty, or desire death.

One by one, the Division Leaders reported to him. Trevor arrived first. Robert noticed something different about him, a surly look that bordered on insubordination. Trevor spat his report at him, confirming Robert's suspicions.

"What's the problem?" Robert moved up into Trevor's personal space.

"Nothing."

After five seconds silence he dismissed Trevor with a wave of his hand.

The last Division Leader, Vincent, approached with his head slung, hands lathered as if trying to wring courage from sweat. Robert glared disdainfully at the weaselish man in front of him. The previous Leader had bullied Vincent into taking the role. No one wanted the job. It carried no benefits. Although Vincent possessed no leadership skills, Robert didn't care enough to intervene at the time of his 'promotion.'

With Waltham seemingly at the gates, ability suddenly mattered. So at that moment, Robert developed a newfound concern for Vincent's performance. In an unwelcome epiphany, he saw his layers of bad decisions accumulate. Vincent's presence made him angry. It forced him to face an unwanted truth.

"Who's missing?"

"Logan."

"Where is she?" Robert snapped.

"I... I, errr... I don't know. She should be here..."

"She should be here? Really, I thought this was a dinner party, and your bunch can show up whenever they wish. I understand she's meant to be here, imbecile. You're the Division Leader, not me. It's your responsibility. Now find her!"

Vincent dithered and then shuffled through his division's ranks. Soon, he returned to Robert, head dropped, "I don't know where she lives, sir."

Heat rose through Robert's body. It sat in his chest, forcing his heart to beat faster. But before he launched into full attack, two thoughts occurred to him. Firstly, her address was a mystery to him too. Secondly, under the circumstances Vincent's public humiliation was a self-indulgent distraction.

"There's no time. Form up with who you have."

Everyone waited while Robert returned to the Admin building and rang for another radio update. Still no contacts. He sighed and exited. From the top step, he surveyed the ragged residents. Disheveled clothes draped over thin bodies. They stared back blankly, clutching an odd assortment of weapons. Pistols, rifles, knives, and hatchets. Their lines formed in a wave, uneven and twisted. _This is what I've got to defend the town..._

_Should I send the bulk of my forces north or south? What if the enemy crossed the river?_ Questions mounted.

He exhaled loudly through pursed lips. To concentrate defense anywhere would be guessing. A decision arrived; he'd spread his troops thin and hope they'd hold their position long enough for reinforcements.

Robert gave his orders. Two Divisions marched north to protect the bridge. One headed east and another west. The remaining four groups started for the South Gate, with Robert in charge. Although he wanted to make Vincent someone else's problem, he needed to watch him closely. So he sent him south too.

The residents traveled by foot. At first they ran. Within minutes most succumbed to cramps. Robert abandoned them to run for the nearby stables where, with a horse to carry him, he caught up with the south bound Divisions. Mounted on his steed, he barked a barrage of demands at his trundling citizens.

Behind him, he saw Gus struggle. The cripple trailed thirty yards, a distance that grew with each step. Robert's nose flared, and his face reddened. With a whip and heel spur, he galloped to Gus. He stopped twenty paces ahead of him, turned the horse broadside, and yelled, "I've no idea why we support you. All you do is take. You give nothing in return. You're a leaner. I'm a lifter. Leaners like you should be kicked out. You serve no purpose, you indolent scum. Walk faster, you sluggish, stupid, useless retard."

Gus stopped dead in his tracks, lifted his rifle at Robert. From the distance, he could see Gus struggled. The weapon swayed, and when it turned away on each undulation, it appeared Gus's purchase on the trigger was tenuous. But he couldn't be certain. And while Gus's grip may have wavered, his expression didn't. It became clear he'd pushed Gus too far.

Even from ten yards, Gus's eyes seemed to narrow with intent. Robert's face washed white. He was convinced Gus would shoot him. But he worried if he reached for his weapon he'd be gunned down. Yet if he remained passive, he'd be shot regardless. Neither moved. Gus balanced precariously on his feet. Robert sat bolt upright on his horse. Both held their positions and stared down each other. The danger increased each moment.

Robert finally broke the impasse. "Next time you point a gun at me, you better hope you can pull the trigger quicker than me." He whipped the horse's backside, left Gus to limp on, and rode to join the Divisions marching south. Robert resumed from where he finished, barking insults and demands that only elicited the smallest improvement in speed.

***

Half the town assembled below Nancy at the tower's foot. The events her actions set in motion terrified her. She wished she never rang the bell. Better yet, she wished she never shot that man.

Her guilt grew as she considered what she'd done. She fought her lips from betraying her with a confession. Despite her naivety, Nancy understood death was honesty's price. She felt the hangman's noose hover around her neck, as if her compulsion to blurt out the truth had become uncontrollable and only fate and time waited to deliver inevitable execution.

The shooting replayed in her mind on a continuous loop. Earlier she believed with absolute conviction the Waltham man reached for his gun first. Now she was unsure and became manic at the possibility she murdered him. It was only as she heard the leaden clops of Robert's boots on the metal ladder that she realized Waltham's "attacker" could never have shot her from that distance with a handgun. When she'd investigated her victim's body, she registered the truth intellectually. But she didn't consider taking emotional responsibility.

It occurred to her she'd killed him, cut him down, that he waved a white flag. The guilt threatened to drown her, until she also remembered being attacked herself, only last night, by another man from Waltham. In a stunning act of moral gymnastics, she wrapped all Waltham men in the same culpability, convincing herself they deserved death.

Like a drowning person clutching floating debris, blaming all Waltham men allowed Nancy to climb to the surface, to give herself sufficient presence of mind to behave rationally when Robert reached the tower.

She opened the trapdoor, peered down, and watched Robert ascend the last ladder rungs.

When his head poked through the opening he barked, "Where are they?"

She waited until his feet planted on the floor. "Just one sniper. Down there." She pointed to the Waltham man and passed Robert the binoculars with trembling hands.

She observed him scan the vicinity. Creased chin and a deep frown. He huffed and lowered the field glasses.

"So you only saw this person?"

"Yes."

"You're absolutely certain?"

"Yes."

"What was he doing?"

She ran through her story again, being careful to say exactly the same thing as she told him over the radio. When he pushed for more information, she offered vague answers. She sensed his growing frustration. Panic ensued, and she cried; the tears flowed easily. He sneered and then snorted.

He surveyed the wall's outskirts before facing her. The annoyance carved into his expression had purity about it, a quality that defied dissent. Silent, he broke contact and descended the tower, leaving her alone to sob.

When he reached the bottom, he looked up and watched her shut the trap door.

Beside him his lieutenant, Samantha, said, "See, I told you making her a purchaser was a bad idea. Now we have this whirlwind of bullshit to process."

"Blow you!" Robert snapped.

Samantha raised an eyebrow. The display of petty insolence irritated him. He shot her a short, forced smile, which disappeared seconds later. "We must consider this, carefully. There are three possibilities. One, the man isn't from Waltham. Two, it was a prelude to an assault, and the rest retreated. Who knows why? Three, they came to offer a treaty and fouled it up."

He paused and mulled over the situation. "I don't believe in coincidences. That rules out one. If they stuffed up an attack, it'd be sensible to strike before we mobilize. Finally, if they sought peace, then they'll come for us regardless when their man doesn't return. So, we've no option but to prepare for war."

# Chapter 22 – Prison Break

May 20, 2057, 10:19 a.m. – Riverhead, New York

Three days ago, Carl had tried to isolate Grant by sending him alone to Riverhead at New York's eastern extremity. However, Grant anticipated Carl's intentions were malicious. So he'd secretly brought his finest soldiers, the team of six.

Grant had fought many battles with his men, protecting Katharine from assassination plots, escorting her through harm's way, dealing with rogue military factions, and generally acting as the hammer of last resort. To Grant the crew were irreplaceable.

Of everyone, Grant valued Hussein most. Hussein was a muscular man of Iranian ethnicity. A deep scar crossed his face, an inch below his eye, all the way to his chin. Six months ago, he received the injury fending off rioters. The election was in full swing, and Katharine had just endorsed Carl's opponent. They were preparing to secure the exit from the conference foyer when the mob descended upon them. Hussein fought valiantly. But that wasn't what'd impressed Grant.

As he watched from the first floor, ready to rush Katharine to the roof, it seemed inevitable a hundred insane people would overrun his team. Yet even when the situation appeared hopeless, Hussein's example united the men. It would've been easy for him to empty his clip indiscriminately into the rioters. But he didn't. Instead, he sang the national anthem. Slowly, his comrades joined him. It shocked the crowd, disarmed them. They mellowed and dissipated. That was six months ago, and every day since then Hussein proved his worth to Grant.

Now that Katharine needed help, he assembled the squad once again. Their mission was to free the military prisoners. The prison was in Queens, nineteen minutes away by the fastest chopper available. By the time Grant rallied and briefed them and finished preparations, a critical quarter of an hour passed since Katharine's call.

Although events at Kennedy didn't surprise him, he failed to anticipate their speed and precise direction. One thing remained certain. Katharine's panicked voice meant the situation had become dire, and every second mattered.

Once airborne, Grant called Katharine on the secure com. "We're up. We'll arrive in seventeen minutes."

Katharine responded with a quiet "okay" after which Grant immediately hung up. He knew she acted on desperation. His intelligence sources disappeared days ago. Logic dictated that if the prisoners were at risk, then Carl, who moved at least a step ahead, would continue to hold the initiative.

The ambush was obvious. Another leader would've cancelled the operation, or vacillate in indecision. But not Grant. He conducted one mental pass over all the available data, weighed the known facts against uncertainty's probability, and decided. Neither fear nor thrill would sway his resolve, only changed circumstances or intelligence. As Grant processed information, he remained motionless, his eyes unblinking.

After a minute, Grant broke from his trance-like state. Two squat benches faced each other across a retractable holographic screen. With a wrist flick, an electronic map opened. "The mission is go, with a 95 percent chance of strong hostile resistance. We face an enemy 98 percent likely to be at least five-times our strength. The likelihood they'll be incompetent is also high."

His numbers once bemused his team. When they first joined him, they thought he was full of shit or insane. But as time passed and they realized he always made the right call, they perceived him differently. Instead of mad, they considered him special and wrote his utterances off as an eccentric expression of military genius.

Grant continued. "It's safe to assume our opponents are incompetent in training and experience. Therefore, we'll divide our forces. Alpha will be the diversion. You'll deploy here." He pointed to the map and resumed the briefing. The plan was to draw their adversary from the compound and surround them. It was especially risky for the bait, Alpha.

At the briefing's conclusion Grant said, "We'll face each other's crossfire. Be careful." He paused. "Alpha will be unsupported for nine minutes. Questions?" There were none.

"Needless to say, because you lot destroyed the secure coms during our last assignment, our plan requires radio silence."

Three men stared at the cockpit floor sheepishly.

He divided his soldiers into Alpha and Bravo and discussed the plan's finer points, double-checking they understood all aspects. Afterwards, he assigned himself to Bravo, the group responsible for striking the enemy's rear.

Five miles from the drop zone, Hussein yelled, "Missile!"

A long tail streamed behind the weapon as it closed on them at six hundred yards per second. It'd already reached halfway when the pilot spotted the white streak racing towards them. She yelled, "Brace!" and pushed the cyclic forward. The nose pitched down, and she accelerated into a hard dive. They plummeted in a tight arc. Shoulders dug into the seatbelts as their bodies tried to climb skywards. Three seconds later, she released flares, and pulled the bird up; the G force pushed the passengers hard into their seats.

Fifty yards below, the missiles locked onto the bright counter measures. When they hit, they exploded in a huge billowing ball of fire. Shock waves ripped into the chopper. Emergency warning bells bleated over each other. The cabin shuddered as she fought to gain control.

Moments later, another two missiles emerged from the urban landscape below. The long line of fuel exhaust betrayed their vector and origin. Grant yelled, "Turn broadside!"

With only seconds before impact, using decoys against rockets with different approach vectors was futile. Consequently, the pilot complied with Grant's unusual request immediately.

What the team saw next, they'd never forget. Although they witnessed it with their own eyes, they didn't believe their senses.

They watched Grant pull the door open, grab the overhead rail with his left hand, lean outside the aircraft, and while holding his assault rifle with his right hand, he did what everyone considered impossible.

He hit a target that closed off axis, rocketing in an upwards arc, from a platform traveling perpendicular to the projectile, on a floor that jolted and vibrated with the turbulence caused by the aggressive maneuver.

The missile's speed meant it'd only travel through his assault rifle's range for seconds. Within that time window, he leaned out the chopper, wind buffeting his hair and clothes, took aim, and with three precise bursts, destroyed the nearest one. Then, in a smooth movement, processed without pause, he swung to his next target and fired another two rounds. Both missiles exploded, their front cones ripped to shreds by bull's-eye hits.

The men stared at him, mouths open, in silence. The pilot demanded an explanation. But none arrived. The men's battle-hardened faces appeared as bewildered as a young child at a magic show.

Grant approached the cockpit, pointed to acres of thick forest, and said, "Fly there."

An old freeway cut a swathe through the trees. Grant hoped the road would be clear enough to hide the bird. Miles of roads failed to provide cover. Overgrown bush and half-hidden power poles and lights littered the suburban streets. It was safer to risk the SAMs, than navigate a patchwork of paths at ground level. High altitude increased their visibility, but it also improved their chances of spotting threats.

Grant grabbed the pilot's shoulder. "They'll waste a few moments thinking they have made an error. The plan's unchanged." He faced his team and gave them a rare smile. "They've rolled out the welcome mat. Let's return the hospitality."

They yelled back enthusiastically, "Whorarrr!"

The pilot dropped under the canopy and hugged the road as close as daring permitted. They arrived on the prison compound within moments. At Grant's command, she climbed above the treetops to glimpse a bird's-eye view of the complex, deliberately betraying their position. Grant kicked the rappel ropes out, and Alpha descended in full sight of the jail defenders, just before the aircraft disappeared behind the trees again.

The enemy betrayed its incompetence by firing an infrared missile at the front rather than their rear. It was an inexcusable mistake given they had days to deploy to the compound's east. A hind shot would've been fatal. Their poor weapon handling skills indicated they received little or no training. Consequently, Grant assumed their ineptitude extended to tactical ignorance. Nevertheless, the view of the compound turned the soldiers' faces white. Their brief glimpse revealed at least forty heavily armed men.

After Alpha deployed, the helicopter flew in a spiral with a three-mile radius that grew to four miles as the aircraft neared its destination. When they finished, they'd land behind the enemy, if Alpha succeeded in drawing them to the kill zone.

He'd instructed Alpha to set crackers to their rear and then leap frog backward. The maneuver allowed Alpha to encourage the prison guards to pursue them, without overrunning them. The tiny explosive device simulated an assault rifle's sporadic bursts. With a five-second delay, they provided Alpha time to retreat and repeat the process. If the enemy realized they only chased three men, they'd have hunted them immediately. The decoys forced the enemy to pause and lay suppressing fire, and thus slow their advance.

One minute into the flight, Grant announced a change of plan. "We must use shock and awe to win. We can't hold them up in the fishbowl with all of us on the ground. Hussein, I want you on the bird. Drop them with the MG once they're trapped."

After a brief flight, the chopper hovered over woods a mile north of the enemy's anticipated position. Bravo rappelled to the earth at speed. The zipping noise of rope sliding through gloves followed them. When they hit the dirt, they sprinted hard towards the engagement zone.

Grant slowed to look back periodically. Despite intense physical fitness, the other two soldiers strained to keep pace with him. With less than five minutes to cover an uneven terrain, carrying heavy assault rifles, a large supply of ammo, and various other bits of essential kit, they struggled. He waited for them and then followed behind.

Crackers and the occasional weapon burst sounded in the distance. An experienced fighter could tell the difference between the fake and real gunfire, a difficult but learnable skill. Grant watched his men's posture raise, a less stumbling pose; their strides flowed more evenly. The noise had injected determination into their weakened legs.

As they closed on their prey, he whistled. The men turned and stopped. He signaled for them to take cover. In a second he removed his boots. Barefooted, he pushed ahead, crouched as he moved with speed and stealth. Twigs and leaves silent underfoot.

In the open forest in front, he surveyed their adversary, and beyond that, across a clearing, he identified where Alpha had dug in position. The enemy had already begun to hook the clearing's outskirts with the obvious intention of outflanking Alpha. To succeed, Grant needed to coax his quarry into the grassy field, everyone. If they divided and continued to skirt the forest's edge, Grant would lose.

The unmistakable crack of an assault rifle followed. To his left Grant watched a scrappy man drop. To the right another fell. He smiled; they'd anticipated the risk and took initiative. Alpha had killed the lead soldiers advancing on them. Panic ensued. Both arms of the enemy advance retreated to the center.

Grant held his hand high, instructing the two soldiers behind him to hold fast. He watched a brutish man try to rally his troops. As the brute walked the line, he screamed abuse, kicking random men's backsides. His motivational tactic didn't work. A two-round burst followed, and the brute fell. A second wave of panic ensued, and the few combatants that still stood dived to the earth and burrowed under the closest cover.

Grant looked back to Bravo, a hundred yards behind. He motioned for them to join him. Twenty seconds later, they were in position. He signaled for them to creep forward. They stalked their prey with stealth that only comes from experience and a hunter's heart. Fifty yards from the enemy, Grant raised his hand. They halted, waiting for their quarry to react to Alpha's silence.

Unfortunately, the foe that had unwittingly followed his game plan to that moment drifted off script. They lay still, frozen with fear. The chopper would arrive within two minutes. If they didn't cross the open field, the aircraft would be useless. Most likely, it'd spooked the amateur combatants, and they'd retreat towards Grant's team. Three men against what they now counted to be sixty-seven men was certain suicide, even sixty-seven panicked men.

He broke radio silence. The ragtag men proved themselves disorganized amateurs, so it was unlikely that they'd be able to intercept Grant's communications. "Alpha, fake a noisy exit, rejoin when Bravo engages."

Alpha fired random non-lethal rounds, popped a smoke grenade, yelled 'Go, go, go!' and made a highly visible escape across the tree line. This elicited the desired impact. A soldier yelled, "There's only fucking three of them, and they're running away! Get them!" A roar followed. The disheveled men scrambled to their feet and ran at Alpha, spraying bullets wildly into the bushes.

Grant motioned his troops to move up fast. They took position on the clearing's northern edge. At his command, they opened fire. Each round shot with precision; one bullet, one target, one kill.

Twelve seconds later, the bird arrived, blazing metal into the enemy as it arced across the field. Fear immobilized the nameless men as they watched the person beside them fall in bloody carnage. A few stood and screamed and sprinted for the tree line. Grant's team cut them down without mercy or emotion. Within less than a minute, the entire battle ended.

His hand rose to indicate cease-fire. Bravo halted immediately, and Alpha and Charlie stopped when they realized the others had disengaged. The chopper landed at the clearing's edge, and Hussein joined them.

He moved towards the massacre's epicenter, men in echelon behind him, their rifles raised, ready to sight, target, and dispatch any threat. It soon became apparent that everyone had died. He lifted a deceased man's arm with his rifle's muzzle, noting the tattoo.

Among the dead lay an odd mixture of fat, muscular, and skinny men—all in poorly fitting uniforms, with jail tattoos and rotting teeth.

"Ex-cons?" asked Hussein.

"Yes."

Grant turned on his sole secure com and called Katharine. "It was an ambush. We're about to assault the prison, but I doubt the military leadership is incarcerated there. It appears Carl deputized criminals into the army."

Katharine's voice returned, thin and frail. "I underestimated Carl, profoundly. I removed the sole obstacle to him achieving absolute power, the military. It's madness, madness... There's something veiled on the stage..." She paused. "I can't be certain. It's hidden under canvas. I think its gallows. He'll hang them. My God, I think he'll hang them." She cried, "Grant, I don't know what to do."

"Stay put. I'll get you."

"What about the inmates? Maybe they aren't gallows... Maybe they aren't for them?"

"They won't be here. Carl fed you false information to lure me into an ambush. He is putting on a show; it fits perfectly with his modus operandi. The prisoners are at the rally, and he plans to hang them publically. Stay there. We're coming."

He motioned for the team. When they joined him, he said, "The governor's gone mad, and he's about to turn this whole place into an asylum. We're returning to our old role, one we can do with our heads held high. We're protecting Ms. Wilde."

They nodded agreement and jumped into the chopper. Grant boarded last. When he stepped on the landing skids, an inmate soldier they presumed dead raised his rifle—and shot Grant through the back.

A vortex of dust formed as the bird rose. Grant crumpled. The brace slipped from his hands. He fell backward, stiff and still on his brief journey towards the ground, fifteen feet below him. Hussein snatched the air to catch him. But it was hopeless, and he missed. Joel yelled at the pilot, "Land now!"

With a short burst, Joel dispatched the inmate as Hussein and the team vaulted before they landed.

Grant's comrades crowded around him while Joel continued to watch for enemies. Hussein dropped to the ground on his knees and lifted Grant's head gently. Grant looked at Hussein earnestly. "Your order is to protect Katharine. You're in charge now."

"No!" Hussein yelled. Tears streamed down his leathered face. Grant's slouch and jacket hid his wound. But even without blood's evidence, Hussein didn't need to examine Grant's injury. Long experience told him it was fatal. Normally, his training would've been to carry Grant to safety, but for seconds he froze. The other team members also succumbed to cognitive paralysis. Decision eluded them.

From across the field a detachment of soldiers who presumably guarded the inner compound now closed on their position. Unlike the inmates, these men moved like professionals. Grant's team laid suppressing fire. Their opponents responded in kind. A group broke off to hook around their right flank. They wouldn't fall for gimmicks. Between his MG bursts Joel yelled, "Get him on board."

Hussein attempted to lift Grant. But Grant barked his final order with force and authority that demanded obedience. "Save Katharine, nothing else matters. Go now!" Grant pressed his coms device into Hussein's hands, rolled onto his stomach, lifted himself on one knee, and then immediately fired short rounds of deadly accurate fire at the enemy.

Hussein's choices vanished; his master had spoken. He turned and sprinted to the chopper. As it lifted, his eyes fixed on Grant, and he whispered, "We must find Ms. Wilde. That's our mission now."

# Chapter 23 – Finding an Edge

May 20, 2057, 11:00 a.m. – Allston

After Nancy rung the alarm bell, Robert set the town on its highest alert level. He recognized the danger. His power rested on an unspoken promise: don't push. Like all other towns, duty and hard work became dead concepts. Only survival mattered. Any effort above that threshold held no value. Residents only followed leaders that understood this economy. Bosses that attempted to nudge people beyond survivalism soon found their political capital in freefall. And when it hit zero, so did they.

Robert stared at the empty parade ground through Admin's streaked window. Muffled ashen light rendered the landscape hazy. The day was identical to a thousand others, and although he tried to convince himself nothing had changed, a pall drew over him, tainting his outlook with dread. Yesterday the barren and cracked pavement looked boring. It reminded him of the work ahead, long hours in Admin, processing paper plans. Today it possessed an aura of defeat. The earth over which the enemy would drag his bloodied corpse and hoist it up the flagpole.

After he returned to his desk, Samantha joined him. The dim light accentuated the shadows that crossed his face, rendering him crankier and more withdrawn than usual. In grizzled tones he said, "There's only so long this'll remain a secret. When their man doesn't return, they're bound to send another. If we don't respond within a day, we'll lose the initiative."

"We need intel. What about Trevor?"

"I don't trust him."

"But he finishes jobs like these," Samantha said.

"No, we're not using him this time."

"What about Gus? He'd be unexpected. And he's expendable."

Robert rubbed his rough chin. "The asshole threatened to shoot me today. If he gets shot that's just plain bad luck." When he finished speaking, an unusual twinge of regret crept over him. The feeling came as an unfamiliar surprise, and he didn't understand its cause or origin. After a short pause he continued. "He's done his duties until now, but he won't be able to continue for much longer. His health is going downhill fast."

"Shall we set it up as a trade?"

"No, let's pretend we saw no one from Waltham, cite our grievances, and press for compensation, and peace."

"How do you reckon they'll react?"

Robert shrugged his shoulders. From the corner of his eye, he watched his right hand tremble. Unexpected, it arrived from nowhere. As if hiding a shameful secret, he moved his fist under the desk and shifted his attention back to Samantha. "However they respond, we can't sustain this alert level for longer than a few days. Otherwise there will be mutiny. We must force the situation, decisively. I've lost my trust in Waltham, so my inclination would be for war."

"But they're stronger than us. Our people won't fight."

"That's only true if we attack them. If we can goad Waltham into a preemptive strike, then most will die outside our gates."

Samantha's eyebrows rose. "You're making a lot of assumptions. Why are you rushing for bloodshed? At least see how Gus goes."

"You're missing the big picture. Remember eight years ago? Things are heading that way again. There's so little print circulating. Over the last twenty months, we've dropped our trades from daily, to weekly, to fortnightly, to monthly meetings. Now we're looking at quarterly trades. You know this."

"Yes..." Samantha sighed.

"Soon desperation will strike. But this time, after the fighting's finished, we'll wake in the Stone Age. There'll be nothing left. The fight is coming. Whatever the outcome of Gus's meeting, this is an opportunity."

The chair squeaked against the floor as he stood. He stared down at his desk. All the things of his job lay before him: rosters, orders, inventories, and forecasts. Yesterday they consumed his focus. Today they looked like paper, thin and fragile.

With the earnest intent of a man on his deathbed, he fixated on Samantha's eyes. "We've mobilized the town. Next time it mightn't be possible. Best act while we can."

Silence.

"Yes... I guess you're right... We could try to formalize our alliance with Norwood. That'd scare Waltham into action. If they're not already preparing," Samantha said.

"Yes, do that. Go there and meet your opposite number. Leak your visit. Not too obvious. Make it appear we're trying to keep it a secret."

"And Gus?"

"We'll send him now. I'll tell him it's a peace mission, one he needs to do in person. Once they hear of your Norwood trip, they'll interpret Gus's meeting as preparation for a hostile diversion. They'll try to strike us soon after. This will provide a defined window of time to prepare. Dispatch some clumsy idiot to scout Waltham's perimeter. We need to be sure Waltham knows our intentions are belligerent."

"It'll be done. What's the plan?"

"Waltham must be goaded into attacking while we're prepared. We can't beat them in an offensive battle... but if they're convinced we'll hit first, they can't risk waiting. They know even a failed invasion would weaken them. They're aware all the neighboring towns will descend on them the instant they can strike a killing blow. The Waltham leadership isn't stupid. So they'll only attack if they believe they have no choice. Our job is to convince them this is the situation. Now let's get Gus in here."

Twenty minutes later, Gus reported to Admin. Sweat ran down his face, and he looked more wobbly than normal like he might topple at any moment. Only his cane seemed to keep him upright. The sight made Robert shudder; he disdained weakness. But as Gus straightened and regained composure, Robert's confidence improved.

"Go to Waltham and return with a peace treaty by 5pm. Our security depends on your success." Robert issued the order as if bestowing an honor. Gus failed to react with a politically naïve fool's enthusiasm. When Gus agreed to the mission, without surliness or subservience, Robert felt strangely threatened. An urge to exercise authority overwhelmed him, so he talked at Gus like an adult to a petulant child. "Report here immediately on arrival, understood?"

Gus replied yes with the same even tone. The two stood, eyeballs faced. Five seconds later Robert waved his hand in dismissal with an arrogant swirl. Gus hobbled off, and Robert watched him from the door until movement caught his peripheral vision. Nancy stood, shoulders slouched against the external wall, one foot lifted and planted on the brickwork behind her.

Robert said, "Your turn now."

She followed him inside. Without looking at her or speaking, he pointed to the corner. Footsteps indicated her compliance. After confiding briefly with Samantha, he instructed his lieutenant to leave them alone. The door shut.

Quiet ensued, and he turned to Nancy, who still slunk against the far wall. From the window he observed Samantha disappear in the overgrown path at the parade ground's extremity.

Eyes narrowed in thought, he bit his lip, walked to his desk, pulled out a chair for Nancy, and ordered her to sit. She complied. For a while, he paced. Boots clomped and echoed in the hall. When his attention turned to her, he noticed her fidgeting increased. But she didn't lift her head.

There was much to discuss. But he had little idea how. He decided even poor action was superior to inaction. So he slid his chair from behind his desk and sat opposite her. After staring at her for half a minute, he finally broke the silence.

"Nancy, you can do some strange things in the Strat."

She shrugged, gazing at her boots.

"What exactly can you do?"

"Nothing special."

"Rubbish, you knocked me across the room the other night."

"I didn't mean to do that."

He frowned, perplexed by her uncharacteristic apology. "Who cares? It's your capabilities that matter. We're about to go to war. I need an edge. If we don't find it, we'll all be dead tomorrow. So, what can you do?"

Nancy shook her head, slow and by small degrees. "I don't know what's normal, so I don't really know what's special. Everyone loves the Strat. But to me it's boring."

"How?"

"Everything is gray, almost. The StratBots are obviously StratBots, the people that sing can't sing—"

"You can see the StratBots?" He shifted to his seat's edge as he leaned towards Nancy. "Even the imitation bots? You can see those?"

When she stared at him blankly, he tried again. "Have you ever seen a StratBot version of a person and been able to tell that it's a StratBot, just by looking?"

"Yes."

An electric current shot down his spine, and the hair on his neck rose. "How can you be sure it's an imitation StratBot?"

"The StratBots are gray, have droning voices, and they say stupid things. They look and act like robots."

"Do you understand no one else can see the difference?"

She shrugged.

"Whenever someone has exited the Strat, an imitation StratBot takes their place?" Robert raised his open palms as if expecting an answer.

She looked unimpressed. "And?"

"That means it's impractical to use the Strat to identify who's plugged in. Not without observing them for hours."

"So what?"

"So what! Battles are won and lost on intelligence. Now we have that intel."

Thoughts swirled as he reclined in his chair. As he slumped, his arms involuntarily found the back of his head as his feet splayed. He ran his tongue around the inside of his teeth. After a brief silence, he shuffled in his seat towards her. "Never tell anyone about this, ever. Understand?"

"Yes."

"This is our edge. The question is how to use it?"

# Chapter 24 – Public Execution

May 20, 2057, 11:17 a.m. – Old Kennedy Airport, New York

The masses rose and bayed like a snarling rabid animal. No longer individuals, they acted in unison, as if they'd become a single beast, subsumed by a lust for violence.

Throughout Carl's entire oration, a large object remained hidden under a cover. It towered over him. As the morning progressed, the object's shadow creeped over Carl by inches until, when his speech reached a crescendo, he waved his arm, and a veil dropped to reveal a metal gantry. Five nooses swung under the top rail.

Until that point, Katharine nurtured a lingering doubt that something else lay beneath the fabric. The cloth seemed to fall in slow motion. From her window aspect, she gasped. She gripped the sill to brace her buckling knees.

Another object climbed into sight on the stage, through its center, hidden in a heavy canvas. The crowd's roar rose in pitch as a huge box ascended. When its base stopped level with the deck, Carl strutted across the floor. His arms spun like a pulsating windmill, enticing the audience to greater ferocity.

Satisfied with the tension, he nodded at the supervisor, who then ordered five men to pull back the canvas. The material peeled away to reveal a large metal cage containing forty prisoners. The crowd became hysterical; waves of screams rocked across the masses. Carl gave another order.

Electric motors whined as they powered an industrial hydraulic lift. The cage rose on scissor arms. Once fully extended, it sat ten yards above the ground, its occupants exposed for all to see.

Dressed in ill-fitting and badly stained orange overalls, the inmates stooped in their mobile cell. Welts covered their foreheads where Carl's thugs had used hot irons to brand numbers on them. Their heads shaven, but unclean, their bodies smeared with excrement.

Tight metal collars pinched into their necks, integrated with their nerve endings. A button press could deliver instant agony, one-step behind the threshold of unconsciousness. With the devices' help, humiliation, and sleep deprivation, Carl reduced the formerly proud military officer elite to desperate animals within a fraction of the time a professional sadist would require.

In the early morning hours, he'd promised whatever followed was just a show. That by late afternoon, his guards would escort them from New York where they'd be free to live, provided they never attempted to return.

Any delusion he'd keep his promise evaporated when they saw the makeshift hangman's gantry. Some wailed. A minority responded angrily with rediscovered dignity. They elbowed their way to the front and yelled accusations at Carl from between the bars.

Glee flashed over Carl's face as he pushed buttons that activated the selected collars. The offending prisoners dropped to their knees and screeched. They defecated and clutched their heads as they attempted to ball into fetal positions. Their screams soon ended. In the crowded cage, the others crushed them beneath a compression wave of panic, marked to the beat of boots on metal.

Carl sensed his show reached a point where some might become sympathetic towards his victims, or at least resent him for exposing them to the gratuitous display. So with a nod, the stage engineer lowered the cage. It dropped from sight.

Below, a grizzly scene greeted the prisoners. Ex-cons, many still in their uniforms, pulled the shaking officers from their pen with glee. The ex-cons hooted and hollered as they delighted in their newfound power and their captives' terror. They escorted the now disgraced military elite one at a time down a flight of cold stairs to a damp, windowless concrete chamber. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling's exposed conduit. The square room barely three steps wide. Yet in this small space, the shadows appeared deep.

Unlike the ex-cons, the interrogator that waited for them in the cell didn't kick or punch them. Instead, he remained emotionless and recited the rituals of torture as if reading a telephone book.

The interrogator sat with a clipboard on his lap. An empty stool opposite him for the prisoners. Fresh bloodstains splattered the ground below the vacant seat. One by one, the ex-con escort pushed the military prisoners into the chair. Its metal legs dragged briefly across the concrete floor with the force.

The interrogator flipped pages as he read a list of crimes in a steady emotionless tone. Then he offered a choice. Confess and receive a quick death. Repudiate and live a long life enduring unimaginable torment.

He then activated the prisoners' collars for thirty seconds to show the pain they'd suffer. After, he re-stated their options. All signed a statement admitting their crimes. Before each prisoner stumbled up to the thin corridor to make their final performance, he reminded them of the fate that'd await any pointless attempt at heroics.

The guards shoved the prisoners onto the stage. They read from sheets of bloodstained paper, occasionally sobbing, and sometimes upright, but always on script.

When they finished, a hangman pulled a lever. A shrill sound followed, metal scraping on metal. The trap doors beneath the first five prisoners swung open. Their bodies plummeted six feet. The men jarred to a halt at the rope's end, then swayed. They twitched and wet themselves. The crowd cheered. Guards marched men and women to the gallows, five at a time.

Initially, they recited long confessions. As the executions progressed, the scripts shrank to ensure hangings finished within the one-hour window allotted to the spectacle.

For the grand finale, guards ushered the general himself on stage. Carl weighed in like an outraged bystander throughout the confession. The crowd jeered and booed at length as the general read his script. By the end of it, his expression showed he welcomed death.

Across the sea of euphoric hatred, from the vantage of a three-story building, Katharine watched through a small window. The rotten timber sill partly crumbled in her grip. White-knuckled, she drew hard against the frame. She'd unleashed this evil, even if unwittingly. Now she felt compelled to witness. But after the last man hung, duty released her. She vomited. For a minute, she hunched. She cried and spat until emptied of energy. Finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stepped from view.

***

Hussein arrived after Carl murdered the general. As the men filed inside, Katharine nodded slightly as if mentally checking each name off a list. When Hussein shut the door behind him, her face pulled tight as her eyes widened.

"Where is Grant?"

Hussein stared at the ground and shuffled his feet. "He didn't make it."

"Oh." She fumbled for a chair and sat. She became ashen white, silent and still.

Hussein glanced at Katharine. Across the room, thousands of voices carried through the open window. He approached it, surveyed the mob, and motioned for the team to join him. Below, the crowd disbanded, its periphery already thinned as they scrambled for buses that Carl had organized to ferry supporters to and from the rally. The center, however, remained tightly packed. While they could skirt the worst of it, they'd still need to wade through the knot to escape.

Staying put wasn't an option. The masses moved like a slow deep river around the building. At some point, someone would seek refuge. If they recognized Katharine, death would follow.

Grim, Hussein faced his team and stated in low tones, "She's in shock. We must get her out of here. After we change, Jason can carry her."

Sweat drenched, they'd arrived incognito, in civilian clothes pulled over their uniforms. They'd abandoned the helicopter two miles away. An hour ago, they were predators. Now they'd become prey. Someone would find and report the chopper, and Carl's assassins would follow shortly. Consequently, they couldn't return.

While upstairs with Katharine, they removed their military clothes, dressed in civilian rags, and piled them in bags they'd burn once far from the crowd. They gathered the supplies at hand, disassembled their weapons, and stuffed them into backpacks.

Hussein ripped a bedsheet into a makeshift scarf. He touched Katharine's shoulder gently. "Wrap this over your head. It'll help hide your identity." She complied.

"Ready?" he asked. The men grunted yes, and Katharine nodded. "You guys walk, talk, and smell like soldiers! So we'll separate once outside. We can rally at the intersection of Liberty Ave and the Van Wyck Expressway." Hussein retrieved a tablet and pointed to the location. "Let's go."

They descended the claustrophobic stairway and exited the fire escape door. An empty pocket formed behind the building where the tide of people parted to flow around the immovable brick obstacle in their path.

Hussein noticed fresh posters plastered the wall. They contained a portrait of Katharine with the words "Wanted for treason. Dead or alive. Authorized by Carl Gunther." He tore down the banners before she saw them.

With a few nods, they dispersed into the crowd. Hussein pulled Katharine close. In the jostling elbows, the others soon separated.

# Chapter 25 – Reinforcements

May 20, 2057, 1:00 p.m. – Galveston Island

A mile away, binoculars in hand, from a bare and battered headland, the colonel spotted the professor alone on a desolate beach. Only a chair and an empty glass bottle of water kept him company. The professor appeared to watch the ocean. Wind-whipped sea foam covered the high tide mark, where the breeze lifted fragile cushions of froth and scooted it along the beach's length. They danced ahead of rust-colored waves that broke against dirty sand. As each swell collapsed, it drew the earth into the sea, only for the following shore dump to redeposit it as murky suds. An endless cycle of brown played against a pale gray sky.

With an urgent message to deliver, the colonel sprinted the full distance. When he closed within ten yards, for the smallest fraction of time, the colonel believed he hadn't recognized the professor.

A light beard framed the professor's sun burned face. His clothes disheveled; his chair half buried in wind-driven sand. The sparkle of curiosity deserted his eyes. His skin had become much thinner, more fragile, less elastic. Bags and wrinkles that only days ago reflected wisdom and intelligence now made him look old.

The professor didn't startle with the colonel's interruption. His head rose to face the soldier, his gaze vacant, like an archaeologist that'd drained his blood sifting the sands of Atlantis for signs of life.

"Sir, I'm sorry, Grant was destroyed, and Katharine requires help."

"Grant?"

"Yes, Grant was destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"Yes."

The situation's gravity sunk in, forcing the professor from his disengaged state. He asked anxiously, "When did this happen?"

"Two hours and sixteen minutes ago. You turned your coms device off and therefore were difficult to locate. I also needed to collect and analyze all the pertinent available information. I've reviewed his files, and the news gets worse."

The colonel warned him about the impending message, as it appeared prudent given the professor's poor health. When the professor provided his full attention, the colonel continued. "Katharine is in grave danger. There has been a coup. The governor killed the military leadership. Katharine will be his next target."

The professor's face turned gray. "Do you have any reliable intel on their situation?"

"No."

The thought seemed to stick with the professor for a minute, until he rose from his chair slowly and grabbed the colonel's shoulder for leverage. As he pulled himself upright, he stared directly into the colonel's eyes and ordered, "You're now assigned to Katharine. Take the entire team with you. Find her. Protect her. Follow her orders."

"That'll leave you unprotected."

"There's nothing to protect. Please convince Brenna to go with you. There's no reason for her to stay here."

"Katharine will ask questions about my appearance."

"Tell her you're Grant's twin. If she knows you and Grant are robots, she'll think I'm meddling in her life. She may just reject you from spite, or a sense of false pride. Particularly if stress stops her from thinking rationally."

"Okay."

"Let me know when you reach her."

"I will."

The professor always maintained that consciousness couldn't emerge spontaneously from the BQCs. However, as he looked at the colonel's worried face, he questioned his faith. _Could this cold calculating robot care? What is so special about self-awareness anyway? If it emerged from our minds, why not a BQC? After all, the brain is merely a chemical and electrical soup._

Then he remembered the robots' design. After they created their first BQC, Michelangelo, they used it to re-commission a nearby mid-sized printer. On completion, they tasked it with robot construction. Simple creatures with limited intelligence, produced to construct a much larger industrial printer and feed it resources. These robots ranged from dump trucks to geological vehicles that identified viable mining sites.

Once they built the industrial printer, the professor focused on producing a small but formidable platoon of soldier robots. If rumor leaked about their BQCs, they'd be attacked. Also, he was desperate to reinforce Katharine's security. People couldn't be trusted; robots could.

Each soldier possessed a mini-BQC several times more powerful than the human brain. The professor gave his robots high computing performance for good reason. They existed to exercise lethal force, independently with stealth and discretion. The professor accepted extreme situations occasionally necessitated physical coercion. But exercising violence with morality required sharp intelligence.

It seemed they'd succeeded. The robots had protected those he loved with wisdom and loyalty. Yet, it was all an illusion. The professor recalled the emotions Michelangelo harvested from the Strat, emotions it categorized, structured, and filtered before uploading to the colonel's BQC. The professor also remembered the learning algorithms incorporated into the colonel's programming. The colonel didn't care. He didn't know what caring meant. He simply emulated empathy. Regardless, it made an impressive show.

To the professor, the only thing that differentiated the colonel from a dump truck was a larger BQC. Despite this, he thanked the robot before it left, something he'd never consider telling a vehicle. After the colonel departed to search for Brenna, the professor returned to his morose state.

***

An hour later the colonel found Brenna parked in a jeep at the island's exit. The shallow sand that covered the road had mounded around the wheels. Behind, faint tracks disappeared, swept flat by light winds. Luggage lay strewn across the rear cargo hold, bulges held together with makeshift straps. Her head rested on the steering wheel. Red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

The colonel explained the professor's mission. When he finished, Brenna demanded he leave her alone, and he complied.

Ahead, the road stretched straight and narrow to an empty horizon. Beyond the causeway, over the open ocean, lay a flat, monotonous landscape. It offered nothing.

She turned the vehicle and drove to her warehouse workshop. Inside, she paced, torn between worrying about the professor and being furious with him. Days had passed since he'd broke the news. When he lost faith in their project, he abandoned her. No longer valuable, the professor discarded her.

She considered all their work, the endless hours. So much effort for so many years. To have it yield nothing was worse than debilitating. It hurt like a loved one died. She carried this burden too, she thought. _The professor shouldn't forget that._

She allowed her grief to fuel growing anger. It boiled inside her until she lashed out at the nearest object. Her swipe flung a picture off her desk onto the polished concrete workshop floor. Glass shattered. In less time than it took the fragments to scatter, she'd calmed herself. She searched for tools to clean the mess.

A cleaning robot cared for the facility. So there were no brooms, dustpans, or other cleaning paraphernalia. Instead, she removed two sheets of crisp white A4 paper from the desk. She crouched near the debris, gathered the larger pieces, and used the paper to scoop the rest. After she cleaned the last splinters, she retrieved the photo. The sole picture inhabiting the warehouse. To Brenna, they served no purpose. They only collected dust. But as she held the faded image, a greater loss overwhelmed her.

Irretrievable time had passed. She'd paid for her work with a non-refundable currency of seconds, months, and years. For what did the effort count? What had she purchased with her life?

Yesterday sentimentality seemed redundant. Today the photo meant everything. She traced its outside, opened the desk drawer, and placed it inside. For a few moments she hung frozen, before slowly closing it.

Calmness returned. Selfishness had bettered her. Dismayed, her thoughts shifted to the professor, and she realized his grief extended beyond the project. He lost the chance to influence change in his lifetime, too old to start again.

She called the colonel on her coms. "What's the plan?"

"Time is critical. But we can't risk a daylight flight. It'll take a week to print another jet. I must be able to return quickly should the professor face danger. We can't hide the jets on Long Island, and we can't chance entering New York on foot. This leaves only one option."

Brenna gulped, and she turned red. "Parachute?"

"Yes, and no. We don't need you on the ground. You can remain with the jets—"

"No."

"The plan doesn't require you to accompany us."

"No. I can't wait on the jet," she snapped.

"Please explain."

"You won't understand."

"Try me," the colonel said without confrontation.

"I don't understand myself. All I can say is if I stay another day here I'll suffocate. There's no point staying at Galveston, and waiting in a jet is no better. I must go."

"Okay." The colonel paused. "We'll parachute over the farmlands in north Long Island. The cloud cover will hide us. I'll leave three soldiers to guard the jets. We can't afford them to burn fuel trying to escape danger. The remaining eighteen troops will jump with us."

"Understood."

"We'll depart at sunset. This will give you two hours to pack and an opportunity to say goodbye to the professor."

Despite speaking to a robot, one that wasn't even present, her cheeks flushed. She whispered into the coms, "Yes. Thank you."

***

The jets waited nose to tail on the tarmac after taxing to the take-off position. Their sleek exteriors glinted with the low light; long shadows cast across the runway.

Brenna emerged in a 4WD from between the hangers and large sheds. She pulled to a halt near the colonel. He nodded to her, and she snapped out a short smile. She exited the vehicle, opened the boot, and hefted her luggage from the rear.

"Can I help?"

"No thanks." She walked with him to the jets.

They boarded with a squad of robot soldiers under the colonel's command. At the cabin's tail, she sat and peered through the window. Air squeezed out the cushion in a slow whoosh. In the silence that followed, she sighed. It occurred to her that if the professor abandoned hope, she now abandoned him. _Don't wallow. Focus on the colonel._

The colonel used the transit time to brief everyone. It was a high-risk plan, audacious. But there were no other options. Brenna's job was relatively simple. Robots couldn't log into the Strat. She could.

To rescue Katharine, they must find her. A difficult task in the Strat, impossible in reality. Katharine wouldn't plug into the Strat unless desperate. Every second on the Strat doubled her risk of capture. They had to convince her that plugging in would help her escape New York. The colonel's job was to communicate that message.

He'd launch an attack destructive enough to provoke Carl's retaliation. Carl's behavioral history indicated he'd respond by issuing a public warrant for the colonel's arrest. This would attract Katharine's attention, who'd believe Grant still lived. Katharine would then seek him out on the Strat.

A few hours later, they were over New York.

"Fifteen minutes till we hit the drop zone," the colonel said.

The robot soldiers nodded and attended to their gear. Brenna sat, frozen, watching the colonel walk to her.

"Have you jumped from an aircraft before?"

"No."

He knelt and held her shoulder. "We jump, we freefall, and we pop the chute. Simple. Don't worry, you'll fly tandem with me. You only have to recall one thing, don't lower your feet until I say. We'll land hard and fast. If you drop your legs first, they'll snap off. Understand?"

"Yes."

"What must you remember?"

"Keep my feet up."

"Exactly. You'll do fine."

He strapped her in, checked her rig, and then fastened her harness to his. Although he was a robot, she was too embarrassed to admit heights terrified her. But hiding fear was pointless. She knew the colonel could easily detect all her signs of anxiety and deduce its causes.

"You'll be okay!" he reassured.

She nodded without conviction, like someone appeasing a platitude. Nevertheless, his fatherly tone calmed her.

The rear tail door opened, and the robot soldiers leaped out. Next, the colonel waddled to the exit with her swaddled to his chest. Noise deafened her. She faced the abyss's gateway first. With her back to his front, it felt like she'd step into it alone. She screamed and tried to dig her heels into the floor; it didn't help. They jumped.

She clenched her eyes shut.

When they stepped from the jet, it seemed they tumbled into nothingness. They deployed in heavy cloud cover. Consequently, no stars flickered above, and no city lights shone below. For all she knew, they floated.

Only the freezing air that battered her jumpsuit and cut her face told her otherwise. The fall exhilarated and terrified her. At the exact instant she decided she'd enjoy rather than fear the experience, they fell through the last cloud.

For the first time she saw the city lights race at them, much closer than anticipated. In that moment, despite the colonel's earlier assurances, she believed they'd die.

As they plummeted towards the earth she screamed, the sounds lost in the silence high above her. A violent jolt ripped her up. The chute had deployed. Before she understood what happened, the colonel had already maneuvered them into a tight descending spiral. They landed less than a minute later.

"Lower your feet now."

Slowly, she lowered her legs until her soles rested against the earth, and she exhaled. Behind her, the parachute drifted down, the back held high as it undulated in the gentle breeze. But the colonel wasted no time, already having unsnapped her from the tandem rig. After he gathered up the chute, he waited until she caught her breath before continuing the briefing.

"Finding Katharine will be difficult and dangerous. In case we separate, you'll need this." He pushed a small communications device into her hand. "We can talk safely. The encryption is unbreakable." He reached into his bag for another item. "This is a distress beacon. Do you know how to use one?"

She nodded.

"If something goes wrong, this will help." He passed her a backpack and described its contents. A handgun, ammo, food, water, and a paper map. He opened the map and pointed at various locations. "We'll recon Grant's last known location here. We'll return in four hours. If not, stay put until dark. Then make your way here. Fire the distress beacon. A jet will arrive within an hour. Understood?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"That's okay. Be vigilant. We'll be back soon."

She nodded, and they departed. It'd be impossible to keep pace with the soldiers, even for a few yards. Powered by solar nano fuel cells, they possessed a virtually limitless power supply that allowed them to sprint forty miles per hour for a six-hour stretch without slowing to recharge. At that speed, it'd take them an hour and a half to reach Grant.

Within seconds, the robots disappeared into darkness. She stood alone, scanned her vicinity absent of purpose, unsure of what to do next.

She'd landed on top of a gentle hill. Trees dominated the shallow valley below. They crept up the slope, becoming thinner, until they gave up, and abandoned the hilltop to the long grass. A few dead streetlights jutted above the stunted bush. Their black silhouettes stood tall and straight.

Only the horizon's luminescent glow suggested human activity, a blurred outline of the city buildings drawn faintly on the night sky. Closer in, animals scurried beneath deep shadows, calling each other as they searched for food. At least she didn't need to worry about people. With nothing else to do, she removed her sleeping bag from its cover, lay down, and slept.

# Chapter 26 – Untapped Power

May 20, 2057, 2:01 p.m. – Allston in the Stratosphere

Robert and Nancy logged onto the Strat and met outside administration.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"A mile short of Waltham's main gate. We need somewhere hidden, but with good visibility."

"There's a high-rise nearby. We could watch the town from the top floor."

"The blue building?"

"Yes."

"You lead." Robert heard Nancy utter indecipherable words and watched her disappear. People could exit the Strat anytime. However, from the Strat observer's perspective, the participant never vanished. A StratBot instantly replaced them, identical in every detail. Immediately after, it'd take the most direct route home.

Katharine created this feature to blur the distinction between reality and the Stratosphere, and to stop participants disconnecting to protect their anonymity. Both features were an essential part of the Strat's commercial success, now an orphaned purpose.

No one disappeared, not in reality or in the Strat. Nancy's vanishing act stunned him, and he didn't know how to react. It seemed logical to unplug and check her. If her suit failed, it'd be pointless to continue alone. But as he stretched for the virtual exit button, he reconsidered. So he launched.

At Allston's South Gate, he dropped and flew a few feet above the ground as he followed the main trade route to Waltham. The direct path would save a few minutes. But the mission's covert nature made avoiding detection essential.

Near the cemetery, he misjudged a bend and hit a house. A thud sounded, and he came to an instant stop as quickly as if he'd struck a real wall. Both the dwelling and he remained unhurt. Like a wet rag thrown against glass, he stopped and slid to the ground. He cursed and launched again. Reacceleration cost a minute. Ten minutes later, he arrived at the high-rise to find Nancy already waiting on the roof.

"What took so long?" she asked.

Puzzled and annoyed, he exhaled loudly and frowned. "Is this one of your powers?"

"Ha?" Nancy looked confused.

"How did you get here?"

"What?"

"There's no time for games. You disappeared, and then I find you here, like you've been waiting."

"I just asked to come here. Why did you fly?"

"You don't plug in much, do you?"

"It's boring."

"Well, everyone else must fly. They don't have a choice. Fly or walk."

"That's stupid."

Robert opened his mouth to respond, but gave up. As he examined her, strutting impatiently, her face a picture of haughty willfulness, he contemplated she might have more power than he could manage. _Maybe it'd be best to kill her?_ The thought worried him for reasons that eluded him.

In time, her powers would reveal. It surprised him they'd stayed undiscovered for so long.

But eventually she'd register his reaction's significance and act on that knowledge. The longer he delayed, the greater the risk. Best to explore her abilities while she remained relatively pliable. But he realized none of these concerns mattered. With Waltham at the gates, he needed her, end of story.

Robert said, "We can watch people all day, and you can tell me whether they're StratBots. It'll take hours to collect useful intelligence. There must be a shortcut. The key is knowing who's in the Strat. This will reveal their alert level. How can you help?"

"I don't know," she snapped.

The response came sharp. The challenge provoked an internal heat that rose too fast. For decades, anger defined him. Although he frequently experienced its warmth, he always expressed it on his terms. He was never as angry as he appeared. It'd become a tool, a method for control.

However, for the first time in years, emotion threatened to overwhelm him. Within a second his hand rose, ready to strike her. But before he acted, his rational mind wrested power, and he pulled his fingers through his hair as if that'd been the purpose of his raised palm. The stakes outstripped unpunished insolence. While he understood how he regained command, its fragility still confused him.

With slow deliberate breaths, he refocused. Ten seconds later he asked, "Can you become invisible? Can you teleport to a person?"

"I don't know!" Her arms crossed, nose flared, and teeth bared.

"Calm down. Just try."

Blood rushed to her cheeks. No sooner had redness arrived than she appeared to retreat from agitation. As her limbs dropped to her side, her expression settled halfway between disinterest and serenity. It seemed she took the task seriously. But focus soon vanished. When she reopened her eyes, a familiar sourness returned.

It was clear he needed a different approach. So he asked, slow and calm, "How do you teleport?"

"I just say the name."

"What did you think at that moment? Relax. Go to Allston and back. This time, consider all your actions."

Her mouth opened. Words formed on her tongue but didn't make it past her lips. Moments later, her mouth snapped shut, and she complied, minus her customary snide comment.

She vanished and reappeared within three seconds.

The initial disappearance had astonished him. The second shocked him. Confusion might explain the first episode. Perhaps he'd lost concentration for a moment, or imagined it. However, the next instance demanded acknowledgment. It happened right in front of him. It was undeniable.

The Strat may have been a networked digital dream world. But its virtual rules were as final as reality. The virtual and real worlds were inseparable, tightly woven as one, aesthetically, socially, and emotionally. Consequently, people accepted the Strat as real. Indeed, for almost everyone the Strat's bona fides exceeded reality. Therefore, he viewed her disappearance with only slightly less disbelief and excitement than if he witnessed her vanish in reality.

Nancy reappeared bearing the same disinterested expression with which she departed.

"What did you do?"

"I say a town's name, and I arrive." She paused and considered. "I imagined the place."

Excited by the opportunities her powers delivered, he forgot his earlier concerns that she might become unmanageable and said, "Imagine being invisible."

She squinted, puffed, and turned crimson.

"You're trying too hard. Relax. Invisibility isn't essential. Take a break and have another go. If it doesn't work, it doesn't matter."

***

Nancy relaxed. She closed her eyes. Each breath, a deliberate extended act. Calmness gradually enveloped her. Once she heard nothing but her slowed heartbeat, she focused on being invisible. She imagined nonexistence. From her head to her feet, she concentrated on each specific body part in turn. One by one, she visualized them vanish. Slowly, she descended into a meditative state.

A minute passed in silence. The surroundings that'd drifted away returned to focus. Awareness reached her in gentle steps, like a drop of milk in a glass of water, white clouds diffusing until they merged.

With eyes shut she asked, "It didn't work?"

"No... I mean yes... it worked," Robert stammered.

Her eyes opened as if they trod the murky shades between sleep and consciousness. Senses bathed in growing light. In front of her, she felt her arms move, but they were absent. Fingers, legs, feet—everything had vanished. Movement remained unmistakable. And when her eyes closed, it seemed no different.

For a minute, the novelty excited her. Disappointment followed as she remembered this was the Strat, that nothing here mattered, and at best she possessed an imaginary invisibility limited to a boring world drawn in tones of pixilated gray. Dissatisfied, her malice grew upon considering Robert's obtuse nature. As she watched him twist, hands grabbing at the air, she decided to have fun at his expense.

"Where are you?" Robert barked.

"Here!" Nancy exclaimed from behind Robert.

Startled, he spun to Nancy and snapped, "Don't do that!"

"Why not?" Nancy taunted as she moved again to his back.

"I don't like it. Don't do it!" He spiraled another 180 degrees.

"Oh, little boy scared, hey?"

"Do you remember why we're here? Do you recall what happened to you?"

Yes, I do.

She reappeared. "Okay, what now?"

His tightly knotted chin slowly unwound. A spring twisted to its limits, relaxed at breaking point's boundary. Calmness restored, and he pulled out a chair and sat. "One more experiment. Can find people on the Strat?"

"Sometimes. I found you yesterday."

The barb hit its mark, and his annoyed expression returned. "Let's test it. I need to see it again."

"So we're playing hide and seek?" Nancy cocked her right eyebrow and placed her hands on her hips.

"Yes." He rose back to his feet. "You can even count to a hundred if that makes you happy."

After he launched, she counted to sixty. At the minute mark, she visualized his appearance. Instantly, she emerged above an old petrol station.

Winds ripped the roof off decades ago. With the building's inside exposed to the Strat satellites' prying eyes, its internal features mirrored its real-world counterpart to everyone except Nancy. To her it had form, but no color, only shades of gray covering the millions of polygons that defined the structure's contours.

She watched him fly through the broken window, push his way past the cobwebs, kick a raccoon from its home, and squat behind a rotting bench. When he flicked his hand to remove what she could only guess was digital slime, she laughed silently.

The opportunity to mock Robert was irresistible. So she flew in through the building's rear and grabbed his shoulder as he hunched under a counter. A torrent of swearing followed; she'd startled him badly. Upon finishing the tirade, he became momentarily sullen.

As she remembered Waltham she worried that she'd gone too far. But after he rose and shook himself off, his scowl's ferocity diminished. "Well done," he huffed. He dusted digital debris from his imaginary body. "Let's get to work. I have a dossier on the Waltham leadership at Admin. We'll read that... Then we can collect real intelligence."

# Chapter 27 – Table Talk

May 20, 2057, 3:14 p.m. – Stratosphere

Nancy found it impossible to jump to people she didn't know. The photographs Robert provided were insufficient. She couldn't visualize the person. So Robert quit and instructed her to recon Waltham.

After Robert left, Nancy tried to become invisible again. It took fifteen minutes to find the required calm. But when it arrived, even with closed eyes, now she recognized the transformation. So when she emerged from her meditative state to see her body had vanished, it didn't surprise her, though it still offered a faded novelty. Different, but not exciting. Surreal, but uninspiring. Disbelief rooted in the corners of her mind. She became visible again. By the fifth attempt, she held invisibility until boredom set.

Next, she visualized being outside Waltham's southern gates. When she finished, she opened her eyes. She'd arrived. Two StratBots stood at the tower. She snorted and muttered to herself, "Stupid StratBots." She yelled, "You're stupid, aren't you?"

"Yes, Nancy, we're stupid," they replied in unison.

She shrugged, then ignored them. She visualized walking through the wall and stepped forward. Clunk! Her head smacked into the digital gate. She waited ten seconds and tried again. This time she passed straight through.

Once inside Waltham, she contemplated her situation's implications. She recalled how she knocked Robert off his chair, how she blew the set apart with her anger. Then she reflected on her other abilities and realized she could do anything in the Strat. A wide and spontaneous grin emerged.

Elation soon faded. She remembered this was the Strat. _It's all bullshit_. Nothing in the Strat mattered. It didn't before, and it wouldn't now. Her powers might help with this mission perhaps. Still, it provided some entertainment, making the Strat slightly more tolerable.

Nancy refocused on the task. Waltham must pay for the horrors its men attempted to inflict on her. As she patrolled the streets, she searched for information that'd hurt them. One thing became apparent. The place was barren. A parade of StratBots marched aimlessly. She moved to the Admin building. It also only contained StratBots.

An empty town proved nothing. The residents may have unplugged. Alternatively, they might be visiting a far-flung exotic digital location. This intelligence was rubbish, and she didn't have the patience or aptitude to conduct long surveillance shifts.

_There must be a less boring method to gather information._ When the answer didn't arrive immediately, she almost quit. Then she remembered the mission's purpose and tried harder. An epiphany arrived like an idea she hadn't authored, as if foisted upon her by a benign god. Whatever Waltham's intentions, peace or war, they'd need to explore their options, and do it fast. All alternatives required alliances. It'd take an hour to reach the nearest towns. Time Waltham couldn't waste. It'd be more sensible to meet on the Strat. She could spy on those alliance meetings.

The first two town Admin buildings she visited were empty. But on the third attempt she succeeded. At Norwood, she saw three men, all of whom she recognized from Robert's intelligence files. During the briefing session, he'd told her much about the men she now spied on. Consequently, as she watched them, they seemed like familiar acquaintances, rather than strangers.

She noticed Bruce first. Quiet, yet menacing. He had the air of a man whose presence demanded respect. Sharp eyes peered from his leathered face, half-hidden by a gruff gray beard. Near him, a much younger man, his son, Paul, waved his hands in fierce, short, powerful movements, gesticulating at the man opposite them, Terence Norton, town boss of Waltham.

Earlier, as Robert showed Nancy a picture of Terence, it evoked his disgust, and he spat his opinion, blunt and vile. Robert told Nancy he considered Terence an unprincipled man of the purest type, that he took the mantle of responsibility only for what it delivered him. A man of mediocre intelligence bereft of any creativity. His only skill was the ability to colonize other people's efforts as his own, combined with the cunning to make it appear like leadership. He was a petty man, a small man whose power floated on style. He was a man who mistook conservatism for wisdom, sycophants for loyalty, busyness for productivity, and slogans for change.

As she watched Paul hammer Terence mercilessly, she laughed to herself. Bluster wouldn't save Terence. With no one else to help him, no ideas to steal as his own, only his wits to lean on, and a problem he couldn't hide, forget, or dismiss, he faced humiliating defeat.

Paul leaned across the table and fixed Terence with a fierce stare. "Samantha is riding here from Allston as we speak. They are serious, and the serious business they pursue is your annihilation. Personally, I'm inclined to join them, as I think you're a turd. You'll soon receive something long deserved. Knowing this, you offer the most pathetic deal imaginable, and with a straight face. Make no mistake. You're fighting for your survival. You'll not be stronger after this. There's no question about that. The only question is whether you'll choose self-destruction or become our vassal. What's your choice?"

Lost for words, Terence stood immobile for a good three minutes, rooted in silence. Neither Bruce nor Paul spoke.

Terence stayed silent. As time passed, his expression's uneasiness grew. Whatever came from his lips, it must carry more gravity than what would've sufficed a second ago. The two Norwood men remained as steady as stones in a still pond; no hint of breaking. As the seconds turned into minutes, the atmosphere became heavier, until finally he blurted, "I guess I've no choice."

More time passed until Terence filled the gap again. "What do you want?"

"Our wishes are irrelevant. What are you willing to do?" Paul said.

Bruce added with a voice that sounded like hardwood dragged over gravel, "I'll make this simple. Do you want to live?"

"Yes."

"Would you sell your soul to see tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're in luck. We'll be taking much less. You'll continue to enjoy Waltham's perks. But you'll work here, in Norwood. From today, I'm in charge of Waltham. My son will run Norwood, and you'll report to him."

"How can I trust you?"

Bruce stood abruptly and marched towards Terence, dragging his knuckles across the table. A step short of Terence, his fist lifted. He punched the table and roared, "I always keep my word!"

Terence sagged in his seat and nodded.

"Pack your gear and return immediately. Now piss off," Paul said.

With an emasculated man's expression, Terence scurried for the door, eyes fixed to the ground. After he exited, Paul stood and stared outside, presumably to ensure Terence actually left. A minute later, he walked to his father. A weathered man hunched over a map, his fingers traced its contour lines.

"Why are we supporting this pig over Robert?"

Bruce grunted at the distraction before he rose to face Paul. "Survival and morality rarely match." His head dropped again to study the map.

"What's your plan?" Paul asked.

He straightened. "I've hidden a functional tank. We'll lob a shell on Allston's front gate and kick it open. While that's happening, Waltham's soldiers will swim the river and attack the western perimeter."

"A tank?"

"Yes, a contingency I organized years ago."

Paul's mouth dropped. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't need to know," Bruce muttered and refocused on the map.

Paul's eyebrows rose. He waited in silence for half a minute. "You'll send Waltham across the river?"

"Yes."

"Many will die," Paul protested.

"Yes, they will." Bruce stood again to face Paul. "That's why the first wave is to be Waltham's leadership cadre. Our troops will dig in behind Waltham. We'll shoot anyone refusing to cross the river."

Bruce's expression registered his son's disgust. "Listen, son, and listen well. There's nothing noble in war. Death delivered by a bullet to your front isn't superior to one in the back. There's no avoiding death in these times. You can only minimize it. By killing a few of Waltham's less courageous, we'll save lives with a quick decisive victory."

He leaned into his son's space. "Whether we win or lose isn't decided in the battlefield. It's determined here and now by our attitude. Fight hard, fight ruthlessly, and we'll win with much less blood on our hands." Bruce grabbed his son by the back of his neck and pulled him closer. "But you must be prepared to fight hard." 

# Chapter 28 – Surgical Defense

May 20, 2057, 5:09 p.m. – Allston

Robert barely controlled his excitement as Nancy revealed her spy mission's findings. He knew exactly how, where, and when Waltham and Norwood would strike. Even outnumbered three to one, with the right strategy, this information almost guaranteed victory. He needed to be cool-headed, concentrate on the details, keep discipline tight, and ensure the plan remained secret.

After Robert sent Samantha and Gus on their missions, he tried to work without success. Focus eluded him as terror and excitement alternatively competed for his attention. For distraction, he left Admin to abuse random residents for failing to do their duties properly. When this didn't succeed, he returned and paced endlessly. The pressure mounted with each step.

An hour later, a resident rapped on the Admin door. In the cavernous building, heavy boots echoed with each stomp as he raced across the wooden floor. An individual of no consequence stood outside, their mouth open, ready to issue petty demands. But he cut them off with abuse and slammed the door shut.

The floorboards rocked as he returned to the imaginary track he paced. A few hours later another knock came. This time he found Samantha. When she spoke, he interrupted, scowling. After he scanned the external walls and parade ground for others, he waved her inside. "Not out here."

She frowned but obeyed.

"Well, out with it. What happened?"

"Nothing. I asked for an alliance. They listened but didn't commit."

"That's expected. Did they say anything I can use to stand the town down? People need to rest before the battle."

"No. Why don't we start the defense works now?"

"And risk Waltham spies spotting our activities via the Strat? It must be done under the cover of darkness," Robert said.

"But they won't see our people."

"No," Robert said defiantly. "But the satellites will update our defensive constructions on the Strat." Annoyed by the question, he sighed, rubbed his chin, and continued pacing. "If we lower the alert level without an excuse, it'll raise suspicion." He stopped and faced Samantha. "Everyone must sleep at Admin again tonight. I can't risk illicit Strat trips leaving them tired for the fight."

"You could shut down the generator."

In an instant his face registered disgust at the stupid suggestion. He waved his hands dismissively. "And lose the light and water canon defenses? Besides, there are too many houses with mini wind turbines. They'll use them to power their StratSuits."

Samantha nodded agreement sheepishly. Robert returned to pacing.

"Stop worrying. Gus will return soon. Bruce might be principled, but Terence isn't. He'll offer Gus a peace treaty. You'll see."

He huffed and sat at his desk to brood pointlessly over papers. She ignored him and departed.

At 1:00 p.m. Gus finally arrived.

After speaking with Gus, Robert sounded the alarm for a general assembly. Twenty minutes later, the residents mustered at Admin. He stood at the parade ground's head and shouted, "Our comrade, Gustavo, has single handily negotiated a peace treaty. Waltham admitted all their transgressions. They agreed to pay reparations of 5 percent of their trade for the next five years. This is a fantastic deal. Three cheers for Gus."

Robert started with a 'Hip-hip-horary.' The motley assembly joined on the second stanza. He continued, "Soon we'll eat a hot meal courtesy of Waltham. Afterward, you'll work hard, but only for two hours. I'll shoot shirkers. We must remain prepared until the treaty is finalized in case Waltham goes back on their word. These defensive works are top secret. No one is leaving Allston, and no one is to talk about these defense measures. Not even to yourself. Offenders will be executed. We'll be able to return to normal by tomorrow afternoon, provided everyone does their jobs, does them well, and keeps their traps shut. Only then will Strat privileges be reinstated. Anyone caught on the Strat will be shot. Turn up for your duties, do them well, and return to Admin for sleep. Now, it's time for dinner!"

Robert dismissed the residents and returned to Admin, where he provided Samantha with a partial briefing on Nancy's spy mission.

"How can you be certain? This all sounds too much like her imagination," she asked.

"It's hard to believe, except I saw her capabilities with my own eyes." When her expression indicated he failed to convince her, he added, "It's too late to turn back now. This is my decision, and that's final."

She nodded.

"Nancy's story fits the situation. Norwood rebuffing you, Waltham bending over backward for peace... None of this makes sense. The only logical explanation is they're planning war. If Waltham were serious about a treaty, they'd never have paid such a price for it. There's even the tank. I've heard rumors. But not in circles Nancy moves through. There's no way she could've known."

"Now they have a tank! You want me to help, but you keep all the important details from me. Suppose the tank is real and they intend to use it, doesn't that mean we're stuffed? Where will we get anti-tank weapons from in the next fifteen hours?"

"Nowhere!"

"You already have one?" she asked, raising her hands to her hips.

"No, but we know their plan. So we don't need one."

Reluctantly, she agreed and parted company.

The day's remainder passed uneventfully. The residents worked hard and then slept, unaware that tomorrow they'd fight for their lives.

# Chapter 29 – River Crossing

May 20, 2057, 10:20 p.m. – Allston

Trevor jolted to his alarm's bleating. He sat upright in his camp cot. Opposite him, a man snored relentlessly. Beyond him, others fidgeted and tossed.

A voice growled from the distance, "Turn your fucking alarm off!"

Trevor grunted and hit the off switch. The sound of heavy sleeping and the smell of two hundred armpits filled the hall. Next door, in an adjacent auditorium, another hundred souls were crammed in camp beds spaced one foot apart. He rose from the bed and shuffled through the narrow aisle.

Once outside, he shuddered. The cold air shook him from his stupor. A voice squawked from his periphery. "Trevor?"

He spun to see a middle-aged man holding a pen and clipboard. The town was too small for strangers. But neither was certain of the other's name. When their paths first crossed a decade ago, Trevor imagined a nickname: 'fatty.' The unspoken insult lodged in Trevor's mind, although the man had long since wasted to stretched leather and bones.

"Who do you think?"

The man sneered, ticked Trevor's name off, and said gleefully, "If you don't return in four hours you'll be executed."

Trevor ignored him, pushed into the dark, still night, towards the person he'd replace on duty. _There's so much to do._ Panic rose until he remembered he'd already dealt with everything. Yesterday he planned all the details of his escape during his previous shift. He visualized his gear packed, the river crossed, and the cart assembled, ready to tow his supplies. He'd covered every detail and accounted for all probable eventualities.

Within a quarter of an hour, he reached his duty watch location.

High in the tower over the north bridge, an impatient guard waited for Trevor's arrival. The guard's shift would end in six minutes. A slack arm lift, like the wave of a bored king, indicated his acknowledgement. The man vanished and reappeared seconds later, halfway down the tower's ladder. After he reached the bottom, he continued, presumably towards home. They passed each other in silence, neither caring for conversation. Once the guard receded from view, Trevor expelled air loudly from his lungs.

In the quiet, the precise moment arrived, the point of no return. With only a small window of time to escape, Trevor hurried about his business.

Shortly after Robert put Allston on alert, he dispatched patrols to catch those absent from duty. Trevor knew Robert executed two people this morning for being AWOL. Robert used their short trial as a brutal communication strategy. The whole proceeding lasted ten minutes, with less than half that time dedicated to their defense. At the court-martial's conclusion, Robert shot them through the head in front of everyone. By the second execution in as many hours, residents grasped the message. But to eradicate the risk that they'd underestimate his resolve, Robert announced anyone who failed to report an absence would receive the same punishment as the absconder.

The prospect of being summarily executed sat foremost in Trevor's mind as he walked home. Upon arrival, he sighed, a small volume of anxiety expelled. Soon, he packed everything, ready to head to the old rotting rowboat that'd carry him and his gear across the river.

Curtains pulled open a degree, he scanned the purple darkness. Satisfied he remained alone, he exited, slowly pulling the door closed. Ten minutes later, he reached the river's edge. He laid the gear on the damp earth and checked for guards.

A wooden rowboat waited to facilitate his flight from Allston. An ancient design, perhaps created by a student, then abandoned or orphaned. Thick oak ribs, over-engineered, like a small dinosaur's skeleton. He chucked his gear onto the floor. A narrow strip, four boards held above the bilge, screwed to the ribs. But as his hand pressed against the transom, ready to push the boat to the river's edge, a barely repressed thought resurfaced. _Logan._

Keeping her alive no longer served a purpose. Now that the town was in lockdown, the punishment for desertion and murder were identical: death. It'd taken titanic strength to resist killing her. Many had died at his hands before. But none offered pleasure. They cared so little for reality it was pointless to snuff out their lives.

Logan, however, differed. She grasped at life with such fury that extinguishing it would deliver bliss. Only a higher purpose prevented him from acting on lust. The BQCs demanded sacrifice, and he'd have to forego his needs to facilitate escape. Now that fate no longer required her survival, the desire to act became unbearable.

So he stopped pushing the boat. At last he could scratch this terrible itch and be done with it. It'd take fifteen minutes to reach her house. Even thin patrols presented risk. However, no obstacle would block him.

He skulked from one shadow to the next. When he arrived at her home, he stalked the perimeter, crunching through bushes that encroached within a few yards of the falling clapboards. Satisfied he was alone, he entered. The lights burned, just as he'd left it. From the backdoor he marched to her bedroom, pushing each door he passed open with his fingertips, checking for occupants. Silently, he glided past each room until he reached his destination. He expected to find her, hopefully alive, but it was empty.

For some time he stared at her cot, unable to comprehend the situation. All the logic he mustered revealed no clues. _The poison should have almost left her comatose._ He ran through every room, opened wardrobes, and dropped to his knees to peer under beds. After he searched the whole house, his fury threatened to engulf self-control. He re-inspected everything, moving methodically from room to room, each object touched to confirm he checked it. The dwelling remained empty.

_Inconceivable!_ He raged back over the rooms for a third time and screamed whilst he pulled over any furniture within arm's reach. He continued his tantrum until pain broke his focus. In the narrow hallway, he turned and saw a long faded landscape print. Its glass shattered with large shards strewn over the ground. Blood ran down his arm, dripping to floor panels. Torn staple marks where carpet once lay. Dry timber drank the red liquid.

When he realized he'd punched the picture, he belted the back of his head into the hallway. _This is no good._ He breathed deliberately, exaggeratedly, until he regained composure. _Logan could be anywhere. Someone must've found her._ With nothing to do except escape Allston, he stepped outside the house.

As he trod into the night, the last thing he expected to see was Logan's boy, Ryan, stir from bushes near the steps. Trevor had missed him somehow, and he realized his tantrum woke the child.

The surprise of it baffled Trevor. It left him mute and unresponsive. The boy looked like a shadow. His grubby face tilted up to meet Trevor's gaze. Clean stripes ran down his cheeks where tears washed away the grime.

"Do you know where my mommy is?"

Trevor stared incredulously at him. Here at freedom's edge this boy appeared, threatening to undo careful plans. If the child cried, someone might come. If a resident caught him mid-escape, no words would spare him the executioner's bullet.

Then the thought occurred to Trevor. As always, it hit him like a bolt of divine inspiration. Providence led him this far. Now it gifted him a boy.

The professor might not sway if I threatened him. But he will for a child.

He scooped up Ryan with one arm. "I know where your mommy is. I'll take you to her."

Ryan's head slumped on his shoulder as soon as he picked him up. Deep, heavy breathing followed. The snoring creature disgusted him, but he tolerated it, grateful that he didn't have to talk to the boy. He returned to his house, where he gently laid Ryan on his bed and covered him with a blanket.

He carefully removed Ryan's shoes and placed them squarely in the middle of his table. Next, he turned his attention to the extra packing necessary to cater for the unexpected additional cargo. He grabbed a few cans of the ghastly but nutritious canned gloop that formed the backbone of most people's diet. After he dropped the tins on his bed near Ryan, he stepped to his wardrobe, made of chipboard and laminex.

Inside, he retrieved a small backpack buried at the bottom behind boots. The disorder dissatisfied him, and he started to clean. But almost immediately, he remembered the larger task and walked to the bed, where he stuffed food into the bag.

Everything he needed to pack waited in the bedroom. _Two trips, maybe three_. After he loaded all the gear into the boat, he returned a final time to retrieve Ryan. Slowly, he picked up the boy and pulled the blanket over him. He trod as if he carried rotten eggs, fragile and repulsive. Twelve minutes later, the riverbank appeared through the shrub.

The dingy rested six yards from the water's edge. He chucked a pillow on its floor, lowered the child on top, and wrapped him in blankets. He pushed at the transom until the keel almost cleared the riverbed.

Stealth precluded rowing. The sound of slapping oars would travel well across the water. Instead, he bit the cord between his teeth, cord that he'd use to retrieve the boat from the opposite shore, and slowly waded into the flow.

The cold immediately sapped the air from his lungs. He stopped, braced himself, sipped air, and thrust forward again. When the river rose to his stomach, he lowered his body into the water. Only his head remained above the surface. He paused until he acclimatized sufficiently to breathe calmly. Once satisfied, he pushed off the bottom and paddled quietly for the opposite shore.

He took great care to keep his limbs submerged. Although he wanted to race, the situation demanded quiet. He looked up. High in the atmosphere, a continuous blanket of clouds raced across the moon's path, blocking the light, painting the view with impenetrable shadows. Only noise could betray him.

On the ground, stillness left the lightest leaves unruffled. The river spread ahead, glassy and black. Without wind or animals to mask his movements, even water lapping against his face sounded like a wild storm.

Noisy panting sounds escaped his lips. Upon realizing he'd become the author of his own demise, he suppressed panic to the deeper recesses of his consciousness. Measured breaths slowly returned until once again he found the strength to proceed quietly. When something slippery brushed against his leg, Trevor's heart felt like it'd rip from his chest. He barely withheld a high-pitched squeal. Once his feet touched the bottom, calmness followed.

Upon reaching the opposite bank, he surveyed the area for duty guards on the shore he'd abandoned. Satisfied, he retrieved the light cord in long smooth movements. At its end he'd tied the heavier rope required to haul the boat, which was in turn attached to the bow. The line's weight increased until thick hemp came to grip. He heaved against the stretched line, and when the keel floated above the riverbed, it drew more freely.

The rowboat responded to freedom; its bow cut silently across the river. The current pushed it further downstream, rope bowed over the surface to land. Trevor quickened the pace. It became heavier with each draw. Water rained from the strained line, showering his feet. The vessel sat deeper in the river.

Realization struck—the aging dingy was sinking. Water probably rushed through the seams, filling the bilge in which the boy slept, nestled in blankets and pillows. Urgency gripped, and he drew harder, shoulders swung in sync, as his palms flew over each other to clutch the drenched fiber. The pace slowed within a minute.

When his biceps cramped, he contemplated releasing the rope. The boy could drift away. But he remembered providence delivered him for a purpose. So he pulled with renewed vigor. From his cold stiff hands, water sheets traced the rope to the river's surface.

Finally, the boat drew close enough to see the child. He relaxed and pulled the last few yards slowly. Dingy safely on shore, he changed into dry clothes and discarded the wet ones in the bushes.

The journey to Galveston Island would be long and dangerous. Fifty days by foot, walking ten hours a day, assuming open roads.

Despite his hatred for horses, it was the only sensible solution. So, earlier that morning, before the executions stole his courage, he snuck onto the Strat, where he'd bought two horses from a town fifteen miles south of Allston. For a quick trade, they cost him triple the usual price. But with time tight and the reward that awaited him, he didn't care.

Despite extensive planning, he still had to travel by foot with the child in tow. As he looked at the boy and the kit he must drag the distance, the sight deflated him. Yet he'd only started.

My soul for a horse.

Trevor carefully checked his inventory. _What can I leave behind? If only I could throw him in the river... But fate gave me the boy. I need the 9mm for trade. We also have to eat and drink._

Fate required him to lug everything. With the makeshift buggy constructed and loaded, he trudged the first steps of a six-hour journey to the place where he bought the horse, Norwood. 

# Chapter 30 – Frozen

May 20, 2057, 11:00 p.m. – Near Queens, New York

If the colonel found Grant's remains, he might've been able to download event files, clues that could help him find Katharine. Consequently, locating Grant was a priority.

Any information he could glean from Grant made the effort worthwhile.

It was unlikely they'd draw Katharine into the Strat. Moreover, even if Grant provided no intelligence, he couldn't afford to leave any components recognizable. Only Brenna and the professor knew the robots existed; robots indistinguishable from humans, at least while they were intact.

All this became irrelevant when he arrived at Grant's last known location. A crater carved a gash in the earth where they expected to find his body. Logic dictated Grant would've destroyed himself with high-powered explosives just before the enemy overran him.

The colonel was pleased Grant obliterated himself, and that he didn't need to destroy any components. This thought came spontaneously, and no sooner had he completed the process, he froze, fixed mid-hover over the ground's bowl-shaped wound.

Caught in a complex web of programming loops, he remained rigid. The thought was redundant. It demanded examination. On initial scrutiny, it appeared to be a thought error, but his field routines indicated all systems functioned.

His thoughts were not thoughts per se, but a never-ending stream of probabilistic analysis focused on external environmental changes and their impact on the primary mission.

To be sure, he didn't experience emotions either, per se. Being 'pleased' was a state defined by his programmers, designed to smooth the connection between computation and human emotion. A bridge created by language. Success might 'please' a human, an emotion experienced somewhere on the spectrum of happiness. In contrast, for the colonel, being 'pleased' was merely a word that denoted a degree of achievement, as a probable or actual outcome.

It was logical to be pleased that Grant obliterated himself. The robot's destruction secured the secret of its existence. However, to be pleased it spared him the responsibility of destroying Grant was flawed, as the method of Grant's obliteration was irrelevant.

Despite his best efforts, the colonel failed to construct a sequence of factors that rendered such thought logical. If it remained illogical, it must be a bug. His operational protocol superseded his mission. With no other options available, he voluntarily shut down all his components except for the diagnostic routines while his system ran full tests.

He was an intricate and complex machine, and the professor didn't want his robots to make life and death decisions with software failures. The overriding programming command protocol required he power down all mechanical operations after 'thought' errors.

The colonel's comrades knew what happened. But knowledge didn't help. They remained as frozen as him, caught themselves in an endless loop, waiting for the colonel to resolve his error. 

# Chapter 31 – Ghost Town

May 20, 2057, 11:38 p.m. – A few miles outside Allston

Trevor relaxed once he put a few miles between them and Allston. The boy slept, the cart behaved, and the night remained warm and calm. If the weather rained or blew, towing would've been miserable. Thankful for the conditions, his mood improved until he reached a point where he believed he'd burst with optimistic exuberance.

For his entire life destiny had hovered on the horizon. Now, finally, reward lay within grasp. As he contemplated success, his thoughts drifted to the long days and nights ahead, perhaps over a month. He considered the time he'd spend mollifying the boy and relapsed into despondency.

Worry turned to self-discipline, and so he manufactured the emotional energy needed to continue to push forward. For a while, he dreamed of discipline's reward. Propelled to greatness by fate, he'd stand at the end of his long journey, soaking in mass adulation. In his vision, he became a lone hero in front of a crowd of witless beasts. With each imagined glorification, his strength redoubled.

After an hour of self-induced euphoria, monotonous plods dragged him to reality. Hours passed. He trudged forward until, somewhere in a darkness that eyes couldn't penetrate, a sound came of a distant large machine, carried faintly on the wind. Ear to the breeze, he strained to listen, trying to tune to the source. It originated from the south, maybe ten miles away. The sound ebbed and flowed. It disappeared for twenty minutes before re-emerging again. He stopped and attempted to sense whether it moved, and if so, in what direction. After five minutes, he quit and pressed ahead.

The rhythmic wheels' clicking and his clopping boots hid the rumble. For half an hour, Trevor wondered if the sound had always lurked in the background. Many bends in the road passed until curiosity and self-doubt stopped him. This time the noise definitely sounded louder, emanating from a more specific direction. But it still traveled a great distance.

He pressed on for nearly two hours. Occasionally he halted to listen for the growl that gradually drifted into audible focus until it reached the point where he no longer heard the cart or his boots above the engine's roar.

With his right ear facing Norwood, he listened until he concluded they marched on Allston. _They'll be pulled from their warm beds with an army at their gate. Ripped apart like soft bread, slaughtered for their laziness._ He laughed hysterically. _And Robert believed Waltham was the threat!_

He relished the thought of observing the battle, to see all those base animals he endured, gone. He kept laughing until he realized he might wake the boy. But he needn't have worried. Tucked deeply into the blankets, the child remained unmoved.

He recognized he must evacuate the approaching army's path. However, he still wanted to watch them, to gauge their size and strength. To witness their advance on Allston. Impossible. Nevertheless, at least he'd taste the pain they'd soon inflict.

The army was too large to navigate overgrown back trails. Consequently, they'd travel via the main trade route. To spy them from concealment necessitated he occupy a tall building overlooking their passage. A mile off stood an unfallen high rise. With renewed effort, he heaved the cart.

Upon reaching the ground floor entrance, his legs' energy depleted. So he abandoned the child in the cart, against the external wall, and skulked through the foyer. Shops flanked either side of a long corridor. Smashed plate glass and strewn furniture appeared in his periphery, defined by shadows that followed him from the rectangular caves. His steps' echoes grew deeper in pitch until the aisle opened into nothingness.

The air became dank. The sound of water trickling down stone echoed faintly in the void. Unnerved, he switched the torch to high beam, using the precious and irreplaceable battery energy to push back the darkness. Around him an enormous atrium revealed and beyond, a set of stairs. But the roof's details remained shrouded by distance. Light scattered in the raining dust, leaving vague shapes defined by deep shadows. Frightened into action, he dashed across the slippery concrete, threading a path through the rubble, towards the flight of steps at the building's far end.

The staircase terminated at the sixth level. On returning to the atrium, he saw layers of levels written in dark bands that overlooked the void. The false ceiling hung low in many places and completely collapsed in others, exposing a network of rusted pipes and electrical wires.

The round beam of his light traced the walls until he found a hallway. Upon reaching the passage, he surveyed it briefly. Doors swung half off their hinges or lay prostrate beside the entrances they once guarded. At the end, he saw an exit sign, the main stairwell that'd lead to the roof.

Gray concrete walls gave way to rusted steel reinforcement rods, exposed by pock-scoured craters. The air filled with the odor of something long since decomposed—offensive but not overpowering. Heavy with flaking rust, the staircase railing promised to shear off with the slightest pressure.

Relieved to see the stairs looked safe, he set his flashlight to a low, narrow beam and raced to the top, preferring to risk injury rather than loiter. His footfalls echoed in front and behind him, reaching into dark hallways at each level.

The passage ended, and the exit appeared blocked. Trevor slammed the fire escape several times with his shoulder. On his final blow, the door flung open with the slightest touch. The excess energy spilled him out onto the tarred roof, tripping and rolling over an assortment of broken glass and other debris.

Something sliced deep into his knee, and the torch flew from his grip and scattered over the wet surface. He screamed repeatedly and then kicked and punched at everything within range. Spit dropped from his mouth as he bent to retrieve the torch. No sooner had he grabbed it than he hurled it at an anonymous target. For ten minutes, his tantrum raged unchecked, until finally, puffing and panting, he stooped, grasped his knees, and tried to draw heavy gulps of air into his lungs.

The flashlight, the bloody flashlight!

He walked to the muted white halo, picked it up, and clicked through its various light settings _. It still works, thank God!_ It took a good ten minutes for him to calm down, and when he did, he moved to the rooftop's southeastern corner to get the best vantage. Below him, about two miles away, a sea of small lights meandered and bobbed like masses of paper lanterns, drifting north on a gentle river current. The slow snaking column wound its way along the road. It mesmerized him.

He'd guessed the noise was a tank ages ago. Yet even after he saw it, he couldn't believe his own senses. His smile broke into the occasional laugh followed by whooping cheers as he watched the mechanical death machine pass.

Darkness cloaked him. They couldn't see him. The tank's roar masked him. They couldn't hear him. So he turned towards Allston and yelled, "Die. Die. Die!"

With time, the tank faded until it became a formless blob illuminated by a procession of lights rendered fuzzy by pollution and distance. Caught in a trance, unable to break his gaze from the impending violence, he would've stayed until exhaustion forced movement if random panic hadn't dragged him into the present. _The boy might wake and wander off._

Gravel crunched underfoot as he ran across the rooftop. At the exit, he flung open the door and scrambled down the stairs. The echoes of his feet gripped his throat and chased him down the steps with every footfall. The sound accelerated with his quickening pace. Panic pushed him faster until he descended the final flight in full sprint.

Outside, the cart sat where he'd left it. The boy hadn't moved. Only the rise and fall of his chest indicated life.

Gasping for air, he clutched his knees until his lungs stopped burning. He saddled himself to the cart, choosing to drag rather than push. A now familiar routine returned. One foot ahead of the other, the cart tugging back with each bump the wheels climbed. All the while, he struggled to maintained momentum, winding through debris.

Thickets and low shrubs reached through dark rips in the bitumen road, framed in Trevor's headlamp. The vegetation bobbed and darted in view as he weaved a path. He whittled time worrying about batteries. It provided a steady stream of food for his anxiety.

Within an hour boredom set in. He tuned out the world until introspection permitted more substantial fears to haunt him. The horses he'd purchased at Norwood might be marching on Allston. This fear colonized his mind for the journey's remainder. The worry churned endlessly, as if mental work could unwind the risk.

When he closed on Norwood, the sun had crept over the horizon. The town's emptiness greeted him before he entered. The gate hung wide open, silent. Inside, stillness prevailed.

With Norwood finally in view, the cart felt progressively heavier. It pulled as if the wheels had sunk in mire. He heaved against its bulk. It inched forward, sluggish and recalcitrant. The straps rubbed the skin off his shoulders despite the padding. Each unit of effort yielded less than the previous step until his full weight bought no progress.

He had enough. Ambition's hunger faded. Every part of his body ached to its core. And when his muscles surrendered, his mind followed, if only temporarily. Expended, he dropped the harness and stretched his arms. When he bent to remove his shoes, a cramp stabbed his thigh, causing him to drop to his backside. For a while, he rocked slowly and rubbed his legs and feet.

The pain subsided, and he brushed his hand over the wiry grass. Only three feet separated his skull from the ground, the distance to roll to his side, where he'd let sleep take him.

Only a moment. Just enough to rest my eyes.

But as he allowed his body to slide towards the earth, his head became light and dizzy, and he understood a short nap was impossible. The town seemed empty, but residents might return anytime. He must find the horses fast and escape.

The simple act of lifting himself drained his energy reserves. He reached for a bottle from the cart and splashed cold water on his face. It woke him. He glanced to what he'd towed and groaned. It'd have to stay. Norwood was small. It wouldn't require long.

Without further consideration, he abandoned the sleeping boy and set off for the horses. When he passed through the entrance, he found the place deserted. _Strange they hadn't locked the gate. But, then again, why bother?_ It appeared they'd thrown everything into the attack, and with that gamble, residual risks were inconsequential.

Like a serpent, he spiraled Norwood's outskirts and worked towards the center. Within fifteen minutes, he found the stables. Seven animals were in good health. They whinnied with anxiety and excitement as the strange man approached.

Usually the noise would illicit his disgust. He despised horses, considered them dirty beasts of burden. But today they made him smile, for it meant he wouldn't have to tow the cart any farther.

Against expectations, Norwood complied with his deal and left him a horse and cart. For a second, he attributed the outcome to his importance. Then he noticed the other horses. They were healthy, with shiny well-groomed coats and strong muscular bodies produced by regular exercise. Someone in power, maybe the town boss himself, loved the animals.

He scoffed aloud, a scathing snort, as he considered the pathetic sentimentality that'd put a filthy animal's life ahead of the improved military advantage they'd offer in battle. But none of that mattered now.

Twenty minutes later he had the horse saddled, the cart rigged and harnessed. An empty town provided a great opportunity to secure provisions. So he decided to gather whatever the animal could reasonably tow. Once done, he'd collect the second beast.

Every house door he kicked open made him smile harder. A strong urge to hoard almost overwhelmed him. But his rational mind interceded. _Only take what you need. Discipline! We can't stay long._

Like a child that'd caught its own tantrum in the mirror, he became annoyed at himself as he needed to keep repeating his own internal monologue, until he snapped and shouted, "Stop!" He yelled several times, stomping his feet defiantly with each admonishment. Then, after tiring himself from physical effort he didn't have the energy to spend, he relaxed again. Finally, he found the required discipline.

Last load.

He dumped an armful of provisions into the cart. After they spilled from his grasp, he glanced up and caught sight of something between two houses across the road. It rested behind a rotting timber fence. In gaps defined by missing palings, his eyes spied what his brain couldn't believe. He walked the cart's side, grabbed the railings hand-over-fist, fixed on the apparition ahead, as if it'd disappear if he lost sight of it for even the smallest moment.

It was a jeep, complete with a heavy machine gun on a makeshift mount welded to the rear tray. Fate also gifted him a trailer. "Please, please, please be true," he repeated as he rummaged through its contents.

The trailer overflowed with provisions: food, water, ammunition, a few rifles, and even clothes. His initial excitement faded to fear of disappointment as he realized Norwood abandoned the jeep for a reason.

As expected, the motor didn't turn. He jumped from the driver's seat to pop the hood. On inspection, he noticed two large lead-acid batteries on the ground beside the jeep's front wheels. The batteries were dead.

A quick scan revealed a generator and high-tension cables. He guessed they fried a module trying to jump-start the vehicle. _Idiots!_ He laughed. _I can fix this._

After a brief search, he found an open shed that might contain something useful. Beyond the filth and cobwebs was a green electric car. Its tires deflated and cracked. He inspected the vehicle. Its fuel cells expired years ago. He noticed various electronic modules missing. _Fools, they tried to use these for the jeep._

Trevor hunted through the dusty shelves. He found what he needed: a soldering iron, solder, and copper wire.

Moments later, he returned to the jeep, repair materials clutched in hand. Within half an hour, he bypassed the burnt out module. He connected the jump leads to the generator and pulled the start cord. On the third rip, the ignition caught, and it settled into a low rumble. With power running to the starter motor, he jumped into the driver's seat, warmed the glow plugs, and turned over the diesel engine. It started. He revved it in short bursts.

A wide smile grew, victory's expression. With many tasks remaining, he swung from the jeep to work.

_They wouldn't have bothered trying to fix the vehicle without fuel._ As he swiveled, he surveyed the surrounding buildings. His eyes fell on an open warehouse. A large vat peeked from shadow and clutter.

A spring in his step, he headed for the building. As he drew closer, the smell of biofuel strengthened. Stairs led to a loading dock. He bounded up them to darkness that required time to adjust. Beside a huge cylindrical storage container sat twenty-gallon drums, stacked to the ceiling.

Farther inside, three single drums stood isolated from the main pile. Trevor tapped them. A blunt thud replied until he neared the top, where it rose in pitch to a hollow knock. A metal snap lock held the lid in place. It flexed and echoed as it scraped on removal. The stench of fuel punched up from inky liquid. When he laughed, his reflection rippled in the black mirror. He stared at his own face for some time before he reattached the cover.

The find left him focused, undistracted by hoarding tendencies. When he reached the trailer, he trawled its contents and ejected unneeded objects. He hefted the generator into the front, where the leads would reach the jeep battery.

The vehicle started first turn. Tires spun, and he accelerated towards the warehouse where he executed a tight U-turn. He reversed to the loading dock with the confidence of someone who'd worked the warehouse their whole life. Jeep parked, he raced up the dock's stairs.

The drums proved difficult to move, but after much strain, Trevor rolled three onto the trailer. While retrieving the last one, he spotted rows of smaller jerry cans. He filled these with fuel too and loaded them into the jeep's rear tray.

Get the boy.

He climbed in the jeep and drove to where he'd left the cart.

When he arrived, he saw the boy still slept. He gently lifted him. Each step measured, trod as if he attempted to cross broken glass in silence.

Ryan stirred. "Where's Mommy?"

"We'll see her soon. We have four days driving. Then you'll see her."

"Four days?"

"Yes, three nights and four days."

Ryan looked puzzled, so Trevor added, "It'll take time. Be patient."

Ryan frowned but didn't argue. Instead, he asked, "What's drive?"

It took a while for Trevor to understand the question. He responded a few moments later. "Watch."

He unhooked the trailer. On return, he showed the boy how to use a seatbelt. He jumped in the driver's seat and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The jeep flung up dust until the wheels gained traction. The vehicle shot forward; the excess power caused the rear to fishtail.

Trevor expected the boy to cry, but when he looked over to find him clapping with joy, a wide irrepressible grin on his face, he also smirked. His response surprised himself, but only superficially. At this point, he didn't care. Bones and muscles felt wrung dry, and the simplest thought stupefied him. Everything indicated he'd achieve in four days what he considered a right bestowed on him by fate. _So what if I smiled at this kid?_

Despite exhaustion, a growing desire consumed him. The idea had festered in his mind since arrival. Now that the jeep had narrowed the time required to reach Galveston, he decided to act. Nothing would make him happier than the irony of Norwood's destruction. He imagined them returning from battle, having slain Allston, only to find their own town burnt to ashes.

The sheep and the wolf will be killed in one fell, because in the end, they're both filthy animals.

He hauled hard at the handbrake, and the vehicle slewed to a stop. Dust rose high in the air. Accelerator fully depressed, the rear wheels spun, ending on a 180 degree turn. More suspended dirt followed, along with the boy's laughter. Pausing for a moment, Trevor accidentally let another grin sneak from his mouth's corner.

But he soon refocused. He retrieved a jerry can from the rear tray and walked to the nearest house, where he splashed fuel on the front porch. Finished, he stepped six paces backward, picturing a before and after image in his mind's eye.

With a fluid movement, he pulled the match across the striker plate. A delicious smirk grew on his face as he did so. His palms shielded the fledgling flame, nurturing it, until, ready to be freed, he flicked it with malicious delight onto the pool of fuel.

The flames licked up the building, taking hold within a minute. He watched his accomplishment with pride until his larger mission beckoned him to move on.

Upon returning, Ryan said, "Why did you do that, mister?"

"The house is sick. They're all sick."

# Chapter 32 – Fire

May 21, 2057, 12:08 a.m. – Rural district, New York

Brenna glanced at her watch: eight minutes past midnight. The colonel would return soon. So she needed to rise and prepare for the journey ahead. But it was so warm that sleep became irresistible.

No deadlines loomed, no targets to draw her relentlessly into the next minute. Without immediate responsibilities, she lived in the moment, and at that point she desired rest. Fatigued from years of non-stop work she slipped into a dreamless cognitive cavern, deep and black as an ocean trench.

Hours passed instantaneously. The sun rose unnoticed. Its rays belted down on her face, forcing her to wake. The blanket that had been so cozy during the night lay at her feet. She kicked it off in the early morning with the rising heat.

With a jolt, she sat upright, peace instantly forgotten. She looked at the time. _They should've returned long ago._ She retrieved the coms device from her pocket. "Hello, hello, hello." No answer. But the power supply worked. She switched it off and on and then tried again. "Hello, hello, hello... Colonel, it's Brenna, hello, hello, hello." Still no response. The potential causes raced through her mind. In the end, she chose to believe the satellites were temporarily beyond range.

After a while, she stopped trying. _I'm just running the battery down._ She waited until midday as the colonel requested.

That time arrived slowly. Minutes moved through molasses. An hour later, she tried again to contact the colonel. Alone and poorly equipped to survive longer than two days, the weight of poor decisions eroded her resolve, threatening to crush future choices. As the sun inched across the sky, she considered heading to the airfield, where she'd fire the distress beacon and have the jets rescue her.

Whatever happened, it was most likely catastrophic. It didn't seem wrong to quit. Besides, finding Katharine was an impossible task. She'd no idea where to begin. Even if she found her, what then?

For a minute, she concluded circumstances dictated she should leave New York. The mission passed the critical failure point. But, when she committed to the conclusion, she remembered the professor. To return appeared futile. Worse, she'd have disappointed him. A sense of duty consumed her, and she realized it was better to possess purpose and face danger than to be free without reason. Then she recollected the beacon. It offered a way for Katharine to escape.

With the decision declared, the situation's gravity struck. A strange and hostile land surrounded her. For years she enjoyed a sheltered life. Survival's hunger shocked her, and it dawned on her that she must fight. It made her head spin. Only the colonel could help.

Two fragile and thin threads tied her to the colonel, the coms device, and her current location. If her coms failed, he'd still find her. But only if she didn't leave. To go meant losing a strand, probably the best one, for good. Even if she returned, she'd never be certain he hadn't come back during her absence. So she stayed put, deciding to wait at least another full day.

The minutes that once crawled now seemed trapped in amber resin. For a while, she kept herself busy constructing a non-conspicuous shelter with branches and brush gathered within shouting distance of 'base camp.'

Light crept to dark.

When darkness stole the distractions, her thoughts wandered over every terrible scenario her mind could conjure. The night passed with short slices of time spent asleep, interspersed by long restlessness.

The sun rose after an eternity of blackness. Tired, she stretched, grateful to leave monotony behind for the next thirteen hours. At least she could do something, even if limited to passive observation.

Throughout the morning, she weighed the risks and benefits of moving on until, finally, she couldn't wait another minute. So she packed her few belongings, deserted camp, and trekked after the colonel. Where it only took them an hour and a half to sprint, she faced a sixteen-hour walk.

The first two hours passed quickly. Raw air never felt pleasant. It rasped the throat and lungs. Masks were a sweaty and ineffective nuisance. Some days were better. With passable visibility, this one was bearable. Despite pollution, Brenna appreciated the different environment, an experience improved, ironically, by isolation.

All this ended when she spotted thick black-and-gray smoke clouds billowing above a low-density residential area bordering on the farms. As she approached, she saw flames consuming a row of two-story detached houses that lined a gentle bend in what tourists may have once considered a quiet country road. She slipped into the cover of the tall grass. Whatever risk would greet her in there was less than that ahead.

The vegetation that hid her also obstructed her view. So she searched for a safe position, where she'd observe unnoticed. Fifty yards away, the clearing led to a small hill. _This will do._ She scaled the knoll from behind and crawled the last section. At the top, she removed her binoculars from her backpack. The valley stretched below; the hamlet rested in its basin. What she saw churned her stomach.

A mob lined the street facing the fire. They screamed abuse at the buildings. It made no sense until she witnessed a person crash from a bottom story window, fully ablaze. Miraculously, they rose to their feet, stumbled a few steps, and finally dropped to the ground to die. She couldn't understand why no one attempted to help, until she saw a pack break off and taunt a group chained together in a string a little farther along.

_They're being murdered!_

Silenced by distance, their body language didn't require sound to be deciphered. It was clear they sobbed and begged. Their cries gained no sympathy, and the rioters pushed them towards another home. Halfway across the road they disappeared from sight. With a three-quarter perspective of the building, she only saw its rear. However, seeing was superfluous; the rising smoke proved their fate.

A group milled about the backyard. They behaved like football match spectators, chanting and gesticulating. _There's nothing I can do..._

She lowered her field glasses and resolved to leave. But as she rose and glanced a final time, movement captured her attention. She dropped to her knees and observed the hooligans depart. They reappeared on the street's opposite side.

The landscape zipped through the binoculars as she panned to the back. It looked unguarded. _I can make it. The fire will take ten minutes to reach them._ Without giving it any further thought, Brenna jumped to her feet, stuffed the lens in her backpack, and tore down the hill. Wiry grass lashed her legs. The air around the house filled with smoke, providing cover. It also meant the blaze grew. _Push harder!_

Her side cramped, and her limbs shook. She understood a person's muscles continued to deliver power long after the mind quit. _Don't stop! Endurance is fought with the brain, not the body. Faster!_

She cut through the last of the grass to an open area just behind the home's dilapidated fence. By that point, the smoke seeped between the roof tiles and lifted skyward like a vertical river. Mixed sounds filled the air: cheers, shattered windows, fallen beams, exploded household goods, and high-pitch screams.

She peered between the fence's cracks. _Bugger!_ Three men still guarded the dwelling. A blind spot had hidden them. Light flickered through the paling gaps as she ran behind the fence, searching for an angle that'd provide the best view. Seven yards later she stopped. A larger gap provided an unobstructed aspect. Beyond, she saw double glass sliding doors that once joined a living room with the external patio.

A victim tugged against the internal handle. It didn't budge. Another slapped their hands against the transparent barrier while the rest begged their armed captors. Fire and glass silenced their cries. The men jeered and waved their weapons at their chained prey.

In the chain gang's center, she saw a young boy, perhaps seven years old. An unstoppable rage reached an instant boil. Without hesitation, she rustled through her backpack, retrieved the handgun, and disabled the safety. She ran to where she first spotted the men, where she could shoot accurately. There, she pulled two palings from the rotting fence rails.

The men didn't notice, and if they did, Brenna moved too fast. Between the paling gaps, she fired three rounds within a second, each one a kill shot. The thugs dropped, dead before their skulls hit the dirt. The fire's screams masked the shots.

She peeled off more planks. Rusty nails released their grip on the timber that had blackened with age. Another fell. As she forced her shoulders through the gap, the third buckled and then snapped.

She scanned the ground for rocks and ran across the wild lawn. A broken brick. She stooped, snatched it, and gestured at those trapped to retreat. They complied. She hurled it at the plate glass door, which shattered. Fresh oxygen whooshed inside, feeding the blaze that'd gripped the front. A wave of heat billowed outward. Sweat beaded to her forehead, turned red instantly. After involuntarily withdrawing, she shielded her face with her left palm and reached in with her right. She grabbed the first hand she found. With great force, she yanked the arm and dragged it from danger.

They peeled outside in a line that jarred and bounced. Bound wrists didn't permit fluid movement. She knew the metal would cut their flesh, but in the desperation, the pain didn't matter. They must move as fast as their hearts allowed.

Led by Brenna, the chain gang pushed through the rear pickets into the knee-high grass. They kept running. Her legs thrashed forward, and her arm stretched back, towing the victims from danger. It took effort to raise her head. She only lifted her gaze briefly, long enough to catch the wider view, to ensure they remained on track. Three hundred yards ahead was a stand of trees. They coughed, spluttered, and stumbled.

"A little farther. Just to the wood's edge," she puffed.

When they reached their destination, the chain gang collapsed. Bound, they fell like dominoes.

Brenna had saved five people, a woman in her early thirties, a man around twenty, a boy about seven, and two women in their forties.

Later, when ready to talk, Brenna asked the obvious question. "What happened?"

No one answered initially. Finally, the young man spoke with a wobble. A stocky lad, he possessed an outdoor worker's bearing and tan. He stammered, "I don't know. They came from the city in army trucks. They accused us of stealing. We didn't attend the rally. We're not Strat junkies, so we..." He stopped; his crackled voice threatened to become tears.

The oldest woman shot him a withering glare. Her head shook and mouth puckered, as if she'd sucked a sour lemon. The woman's hair wiry and prematurely gray, curled tight into an unforgiving bun behind her skull. With thick glasses perched on her nose's tip, she looked like a sexually repressed librarian, prudish by day and part-time sadomasochist by night.

As if revealing a profound truth, the woman said, "The Strat is a vile corruption. We trade our produce with the city, but otherwise we avoid them. It's full of sin and sinners."

The other older woman spoke up in a more demure tone. "Thank you. You risked your life for us, for strangers. You're truly a wonderful person. We can't thank you enough. My name is Maria, this is Victoria." She motioned to the older woman with the bun. Next, she introduced the younger man and woman. When she reached the boy, she held his shoulder and said, "And this poor little soul, well, we never saw him before today."

His eyes darted like a hunted animal. Wild and searching feverishly for escape routes.

"Yes, we're very grateful," Victoria snapped. Maria shot a scowl in Victoria's direction.

Victoria looked down and conceded. "We would've all perished."

Maria nodded and continued, "We all live here, except for the little boy of course. We're farmers... Christian farmers."

Brenna groaned internally. She didn't believe in God. To Brenna, organized religion was institutionalized corruption and faith was delusion. She was a scientist to the core. If something defied explanation, it simply meant all the facts and their relationships were not fully understood. She believed in evidence and the chain of logic. Math was her primary language; cause and effect was the path she walked. Where it should lead was unclear.

Emotionally, she became disoriented at the intersection between experiment and purpose. She realized science delivered answers, but not meaning. For years, she found reason in the professor's goals. Now, their project collapsed, she'd lost direction. Like a powerful battleship without a homeport or flag to fly on its mast.

Religion's appeal wasn't a mystery to Brenna. Morality wrapped up in a simple story, a guiding principle. However, as backward as these women's belief systems were to her, she wouldn't belittle their faith. She wasn't an evangelist, not even an atheist one.

Maria continued. "We don't use the Strat. That's why they picked on us...and why we failed to realize they'd target us."

Victoria, unable to help herself chimed in. "The Strat is the devil's playground, it's the recruiting ground for the weak-minded. Now these beasts that tried to burn us are doing Satan's bidding."

Maria raised her eyebrows. "Sorry, Victoria can lay it on thick."

Victoria glared back at Maria, who smiled gently in response.

Although Brenna knew they still suffered shock, they didn't have time to dwell on anything outside survival. Guilt and politeness were too expensive, so she cut to her needs. "I'm looking for Katharine Wilde. She's—"

"I know who she is!" Victoria yelled, "She's the author of Satan's bestseller. The book of darkness, the Strat!"

"Yes, I must find her," Brenna replied.

"Why?"

"If Carl's henchmen get to her first, they'll kill her."

"We can't help you do the devil's work."

"Everyone is worth redeeming," Maria told Victoria.

But Victoria continued regardless. "Katharine is Satan's right hand. She—"

"I'm sorry." Maria raised her finger to stop Victoria. "We know nothing about Katharine other than what she's done. Although we can never repay you for rescuing us, we can't help. Sorry."

Brenna nodded. It wasn't worth arguing about. More importantly, they had no information. "Let's find a hacksaw to cut these chains."

# Chapter 33 – Slaughter

May 21, 2057, 2:00 a.m. – Allston

At 2:00 a.m., Robert woke the Division Leaders, who then roused the rest of Allston. Robert had ordered everyone to sleep at Admin and the surrounding buildings. This ensured people slept rather than log onto the Strat. It also made rallying the troops easier.

An unusually warm night eased the early morning muster. Once they formed into their Divisions, he shouted, "Our scout spotted armies headed from Norwood and Waltham. Soon, they'll attack us from the west and the south—simultaneously."

The residents erupted, yelling questions, accusations, and screams. With the calmness of a killer, Robert removed the pistol holstered to his hip, held it in the air above his head, and fired a round. The assembly stopped, all eyes focused on him.

"Your first instinct may be to retreat. Cowards will be shot. Abandon your post and you'll be shot. Disobey an order and you'll be shot. If you want to live, don't complain or argue. Obey me, and you'll survive.

"The monkeys coming to attack us aren't a threat. We know their plans. They think they'll surprise us. They're in for a shock. Before the morning's finished, we'll have defeated both Waltham and Norwood. Decades from now the survivors will still rue the day they engaged in this stupid folly. Your Division Leaders will brief you. Dismissed!"

The Divisions peeled away to their respective rendezvous. Only one struggled, Vincent's group. Robert watched him read names from a clipboard to individuals that ignored him. When the spectacle became too much, Robert marched to him and grabbed his shoulder. It startled him.

"Attention!" Robert barked. Silence descended. Heads immediately bowed, and they ran to their positions, forming a straggling line eight by three deep.

"There's a change of plan. Gus will lead the South Gate defense. Do as he says, or I'll shoot you. Clear?"

Grumbles followed. Lukka mumbled, "But he's a cripple."

Robert walked to Lukka, stood over him, un-holstered his pistol, and placed it against Lukka's temple.

The boy shuddered. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He begged and dropped to his knees sobbing. Determination flashed over Robert's face. He stepped back from Lukka, extended his arm, the gun pointed at his bowed head.

From the unit's rear Gus yelled, "No. Wait." Reluctantly, they parted for him. When he reached Robert he said, "Every soldier counts."

Robert's eyes didn't warm. A lifeless look, a fatal decision already made. Gus stretched for Robert's hand and pushed it down slowly. "It's okay. We need him."

The words sunk in. Robert snapped from his resolve, holstered the weapon, muttered, and moved off. As he marched towards Admin, his expression relaxed. On arrival, he entered and flung himself in his chair. After a minute's silence, he turned to Samantha. "Only two people missing, Trevor and Logan. Not bad. We'll win."

Samantha smiled quickly, politely. "A lot is hinging on Nancy's intel. Even if she's right, there's no reason they'll stick to their script."

Robert's grin disappeared. "Correct. In any other situation, we lose, and you and I'll die. So our only option is to believe they'll follow their plan."

Samantha nodded in resigned agreement and departed Admin for her post. There wasn't anything else to do. They'd set the pieces. Events now removed choice from their hands.

***

A carefully dressed mannequin guarded the entry; in its lifeless grasp, a rifle pointed at the intruders. Like a medieval castle, the defenses forced potential attackers' focus to the main entrance. With the town perched on a hill's crest and the highway skirting its borders, the overpass to South Gate was the bridge over the moat. At the path's end, an inch of plate iron promised to crush any would-be attacker's hopes.

Inside, a ring of defenders waited for the enemy to breach the walls. They formed a loose semi-circle fifty yards back. Hidden behind a short brick barrier, camouflaged by roughly broken branches, they checked their gear in silence.

Gus stumbled along the front line. At each person, he stopped and asked questions. "When did you last shoot?" "Have you ever shot someone?" "How much ammunition have you got?"

Depending upon the answer, he'd then issue advice. "Keep the butt hard against your shoulder." "Just squeeze the trigger." "The choice is simple, kill or be killed."

Each conversation ended with Gus saying, "Start shooting when I fire this flare. Pick your mark. One target, one bullet."

When he reached Lukka, the boy looked away. Gus hovered for a second before pushing onto his post, at the far end, a few paces to Lukka's right. Pain stabbed his legs as he lowered himself awkwardly. Once in position, he leaned his weapon against sandbags and settled for the hour wait. Lying flat on his stomach, the cold earth tugged at his belly, drawing him closer to the ground. Eventually boredom drew his attention back to Lukka.

Gus watched the adolescent pull at the bricks in front of him. They didn't move. Next, Lukka scraped at the soil, gathering clods that he pushed into the cracks between the blocks. After he wiped the dirt off his hands, he re-checked that the slit still accommodated his gun. He swiveled it, moving faster with each turn.

Lukka glanced to his left. An old man stared back, glum, silent. He nodded at Lukka.

"I've never shot anyone." Lukka's voice crackled.

The old man slowly raised his index finger to his lips and whispered, "Shhhh."

Lukka turned away.

From a distance, the tank rumbled closer. A deep sound penetrated the walls, seeming to shake the earth itself. Under the dim haze of a soft gas lamp, the water in a pint glass bottle trembled. Concentric waves rippled on the miniature surface. Lukka shivered and lifted his gaze from the liquid to Gus.

"We'll be okay?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"This isn't my first fight."

Lukka bit his bottom lip and returned his focus to his barricade. He pushed more soil into small gaps. With trembling hands, he pressed and patted until it resembled clay, shiny and smooth.

As Gus watched Lukka, his harsh scowl softened. "Can you shoot?"

Lukka shook his head vigorously. "No."

"Turn off the lamp and come here. There's enough time to show you how."

***

The tank exhaled a rhythmic _dink-dink-dink_ noise as it crunched its way to South Gate. A long column of people stretched behind. It appeared Norwood's entire population was in tow, at least three hundred souls.

The old Abrahams, squat and painted in desert fatigue, zigzagged as its driver struggled with the controls in the narrowing streets. He accidently carved a path of destruction, creating unwanted noise. It smashed through an old car, crushed half of it under its tracks. Then as it rolled onto the main road, it clipped a building's edge, effortlessly demolishing the double-bricked apartment's corner. At every turn, the amateur overcorrected. After knocking the facades off a three buildings, he finally set it straight.

A hundred yards short of the overpass's threshold, it halted. Its weight caused the hull to lurch forward in a seesaw motion. The turret tracked to its target. When the barrel reached its destination, it stopped. A second later, a boom ripped the night in half. The air itself burned where the shell exited, and the iron wall exploded in a rapidly expanding fireball of shrapnel and rock dust.

When the smoked cleared soon after in the light morning breeze, a great open wound revealed where an impenetrable obstacle once stood. Nearby towers teetered and collapsed; the shockwave ripped their foundations.

A contingent of fifty Norwood residents poured through the newly created hole in Allston's defenses. The tank barely waited until the last foot soldiers made it through the opening. Engines revved, and the beast lurched ahead, bellowing a plume of diesel exhaust. Its tracks crunched into the flat segment of concrete road that slowly, like the cross section of a single gentle wave, rose for the arch that spanned the old highway beneath, linking Allston to the outside world.

The now confident driver guided the massive metal hulk directly up the bridge's center.

***

Meanwhile, inside Allston, Gus's Division waited in hiding for the Norwood invaders.

As the horde ran through the breach, Gus grabbed the flare gun. When he tried to squeeze the trigger, his finger refused to cooperate. Frustrated, sweat immediately bubbled to his brow. The trigger guard became an insurmountable barrier. Nearby, the sound of stones crunched under heavy boots, drifted closer. Torn between concentrating on the task and the enemy, he vacillated for a second that seemed an hour. Choices vanished, and he shot his head up, nervously searching for signs of his hidden quarry. But darkness cloaked their advance. He whistled at Lukka, who responded with a quizzical look and a shoulder shrug. Gus hissed, "Come here!"

Lukka scurried over.

"Shoot the flare."

"The flare?"

"Just do it!"

Lukka snatched the gun, rose to his knees, pointed it to the heavens, and fired. A tracer arced across the night sky, high above their heads. The powder ignited. Brilliant light dispelled the darkness to sharply defined shadows. Suspended under a tiny parachute, the flare hovered overhead like a miniature star. Fifty men and women suddenly became visible, only thirty yards away, where they'd already fanned out.

Gus hit Lukka's leg and snapped, "Get down."

Lukka complied. "Do we shoot?"

Gus nodded and grasped his rifle. Sweating fingers still failed to work. For all its simplicity, the trigger could've been a Chinese puzzle box. He punched the ground and looked to Lukka. "Sorry."

"Should I kill them?"

"Yes."

Ahead, the invaders already dropped to their bellies under the blazing luminescence and the defenders' enveloping fire. Lukka clutched the stock and lined up a woman sprawled on the gravel twenty-five yards away through the scope. With the gait of an injured crab, she crawled backwards; her weapon waved side to side. She paused to shoot an un-aimed shot and continued retreating. Lukka held her in his sights. After some hesitation, he lowered the barrel. "I can't."

Gus patted Lukka's back. "It's okay. Don't worry."

***

Nancy waited three hundred yards away from the South Gate on a rooftop. Her job was simple. Push the detonation button after the tank rolled over the kill zone. If she acted too early, it couldn't cross the bridge, but it could still lob shells at will into Allston, or find another entry. Alternatively, if she detonated the explosives too late, the collapsed overpass would trap it inside the town, where it'd wreak havoc. Only a second defined the difference between failure and success.

Sweat followed her cheeks' contours, and her hands shook. Last night Robert and Nancy spent hours positioning pennant-sized red flags to provide her with accurate visual cues, to correct the parallax error caused by her offset position relative to her target's anticipated path. The markers used a similar method deployed by the anglers of yesteryears, where they once searched for reef on a featureless ocean by aligning trees with hilltops.

Rumbles reverberated through her ribs. A great iron hulk moved at speed. When it reached the middle, she hit the detonation button. The street under the tank exploded into rock dust. Suspended thirty foot in the air, it plummeted along with all the other debris.

A thunderous crack followed, the sound of concrete instantly transformed to rubble. Metal shrieked, ripping as if it were paper. With the fall, the tank's strength became its weakness. Below, the old highway absorbed some of the impact's energy, but not much. All the remaining momentum transferred to the hull, shearing the turret off its mounting, the once mighty gun drooping over the front plate.

Nancy relayed their success to Robert. A second later, his voice crackled back. "All southern forces. Shoot at will. Repeat, shoot at will."

The rooftops surrounding the approaching army blazed as the snipers dropped their prey. The noise startled her. Rifles cracked, like the sound of wind slamming a door. She looked over to the demolished entrance. Inside Allston she saw muzzle flashes from Gus's Division, driving back the invaders. They retreated outside the gate, only to find themselves blocked by the destroyed overpass bridge. Like butter pressed into a hot skillet, the attacker's lives melted.

The brutality cut through the surreal vision. It left her shaking, and she turned away to the street below. Here, she witnessed more violence. Bodies dropped as the rooftop shooters found their mark. When a machine gunner joined in, the enemy panicked. The sight of their comrades falling beside them to the ground in bloody writhing throes unhinged their remaining courage.

Almost immediately, the spearhead of the advance became its rear. The group bunched as the initial retreaters folded into the column. Moments later, the front stretched thin; the faster runners pulled ahead. They paid for their fitness with instant death. Once they passed an imaginary point, Allston ignited a line of incendiary devices. Explosions rattled over each other, the crescendo of a fireworks show. White-hot gas erupted from nothing. The sprinters vaporized, converted to ashes on ignition. Five yards from the inferno, people twisted and zig-zagged. Screams cut through the lower pitched ordnance as a kettle's whistle through walls. Long flames trailed behind them. Soon after, they fell to their knees, one by one, where they continued to burn, motionless.

Again, the invaders reversed direction. The strong trampled the weak, leaving them crushed underfoot. Death greeted the diminishing force at every back alley and side street they tested. During all this, snipers' bullets rained down on them from above. The carnage lasted ten minutes. Men, women, and children disappeared as quickly as soap bubbles, until the bodies of the entire southern arm of the invading army littered the ground.

Nancy leaned over the low brick wall hugging the rooftop's perimeter. Beneath the flare's soft orange glow, the dead spread the street's length. With the injuries hidden in clothes and shadows, it seemed at any moment they'd stand and bow to an audience's cheers. But they remained unmoved.

In the fading light, she recognized a young man. Blood drained from her face as thoroughly as it had emptied from his body. Slowly, she lowered her rifle and sunk to her backside, where she sat, rocking as she hugged her knees. Aside from a chambered bullet, her magazine was full.

In the street, at the bottom of the building, where Nancy had watched the siege from the rooftop, lay Paul, son of Bruce, 'Prince' of Norwood.

***

Thirty minutes earlier Bruce's forces had rallied at the edge of a heavily timbered area. When his son attacked Allston's South Gate, Bruce would launch a simultaneous attack from the west. Hundreds of men formed a wide loose circle around Bruce.

The militia's footfalls stirred a fox. Its nose peeked from its warm, dark burrow. With a few sniffs it retreated, reappearing again as the stomps drew closer, until the threat from the unknown animals caused it to act decisively.

The animal bolted from its hole, darting between the men's feet until it cleared the group. Its legs and the wind moved together, down the hill with the grass that rolled in the breeze. Ahead, the river appeared, a twisting path that carved a barrier between western Allston and the outside world. A line cut in gentle curves. Black and still against the landscape, as if defining a narrow abyss.

The fox glanced back to check that it had avoided the now distant danger. Its heart beat fast against delicate ribs. It kept running even with its head turned. When it straightened to focus on the path ahead, its paws scrambled to grip at the dull grass that tumbled over the embankment in tufts. But it couldn't stop. It plunged down the steep mud bank before it crashed into the river. The cold dark flow swallowed the animal; it vanished as if it never existed.

From where the water took the fox's life, Bruce and his men faded from view, their forms indistinguishable from the woods.

"Move closer," Bruce ordered. The men pressed into a tighter ball around him. They left him four yards of clear space in the center. Once silence descended he said, "Terence will lead your attack."

Terence shuffled, his face curdled white, and his mouth drew tight. When his teeth involuntarily peeked between his lips, he looked down. But he needn't have worried; darkness hid his scowl.

Bruce continued. "Crawl to the shoreline. Be silent. On Terence's order, you're to cross. Success depends on silence. Understood?" All nodded. Bruce rotated in the center as he surveyed his troops. Their heads and hands shook, although it wasn't cold.

"Fear is your friend. Use it to make good decisions. Your only chance at life is to push forward. If you don't, my comrades will mow you down." Bruce gestured towards the contingent of Norwood men standing behind him. They cocked their weapons in unison. "Understood?"

The Waltham unit nodded yes; their heads became more wobbly. Many stared at the ground. No one grumbled.

"Now go," Bruce ordered.

As everyone dispersed, Bruce stepped out and grabbed Terence's shoulder and handed him the end of a string. "Pass the order to cross when I tug on this. We'll shoot anyone who doesn't advance, you included."

Terence nodded grimly, walked to the pack's rear, and dropped to his knees to shuffle the hundred yards to the river's edge. Rocks and sticks dug into Terence's soft skin. Every so often, he stopped to lift his head above the grass. On course, he pushed ahead. Twenty minutes later, he reached his destination. The remaining stragglers formed up soon after. He untied the string from his boot and tugged to signal their readiness. Three clear strong tugs replied.

He turned left and ordered, "Go."

A young boy, barely fourteen, nodded his head in agreement and bit his lip as tears ran down his cheek from panicked eyes. Terence repeated the instruction to his right.

Hundreds of Waltham residents slid from the mud to the river in a broad _V_ pattern, with Terence leading. Most had tied empty plastic bottles to their biceps and forearms to help keep them afloat. They slapped the water with every stroke, echoes as loud as a beaten drum. A few whimpered, anticipating pain after they lost their stealth.

An enormous boom shattered the still morning. Birds squawked and burst from the trees in unison. On realizing the tank had shelled the South Gate, the invaders swam harder. But their resolve vanished under the bright flares that lit above them. Seconds later, the opposite side exploded with muzzle flashes and deafening fire.

Terence crossed first. He stood on the land, seemingly oblivious to events. Then, he fell, tumbled down the bank, into the shallows. With arms and legs sprawled, spine to the sky, he rotated slowly as the current carried him downstream. Others joined the river in death.

The dark waters soon filled with bodies. Three quarters across, the boy bobbed on his float and watched his comrades scream and thrash. Their hands smacked past his head, gasping sounds lifted above the gunshots. Everywhere he looked, an unseen enemy silenced movement. A bridge of corpses formed around him. He drifted as if frozen until a faint _zotting_ sound stole the air from his lungs.

Something kicked him hard, winding him. He grabbed at a bolt protruding from his chest. As he released it and his head sunk, he gazed skyward. Ten yards above him, a man nested on the tree branch, solemn-faced, a crossbow in his hands.

***

Bruce observed his invasion melt, and it puzzled him. From the rear, he noted the number of casualties didn't match the rate of fire from the opposite shore. When he finally spotted the crossbow snipers in the trees, it was too late. Allston decimated his army; their bodies bumped and bobbed downstream. The good, the bad, and the indifferent all suffered a shared fate.

Bruce deflated. Ten minutes ago, he was a king in waiting. Now he lost everything. The tank only shot one round, and the battle he heard earlier from South Gate had stopped. He would've believed Terence betrayed him, but he watched him die.

He only commanded a small Norwood contingent in the west, the men he would've used to threaten Waltham retreaters with death. An inadequate force by any measure. He considered this might be punishment for his greed. He gambled on taking two towns for the price of one and lost everything.

It seemed pointless to retreat. Another ambush surely waited for them. But to hold fast was equally futile. In fact, nothing mattered to Bruce anymore. So he gave the order anyway, and thirty-eight men and women turned and sprinted from Allston. They didn't run far before they fell into a trap.

The scene deteriorated to panic. Norwood residents shot in any random direction they pointed their weapons. But Bruce no longer cared, and therefore he didn't react. He simply continued walking. He didn't wish to save himself, and he didn't seek death. Desire meant nothing. If he died or lived, it made no difference.

Allston spread its rear troops thin. In the chaos, Bruce walked through the trap unharmed. The gunfire stopped, but he didn't notice. He kept walking, oblivious until he tripped and fell hard against rocks. As he touched the blood running down his forehead, he realized he'd survived.

# Chapter 34 – Allston Celebrates

May 21, 2057, 5:17 a.m. – Allston

Victory came so quickly and so thoroughly, it left Allston's residents bewildered in the abrupt silence that followed the intense battle. The combat lasted less than fifteen minutes from start to finish. Everything pointed to success. However, they remained on station until ordered, lest they survive the fight of their lives only to be shot for desertion.

Despite logic, Robert also struggled to comprehend their conquest. Only yesterday, he contemplated dreadful alternatives should Waltham attack. Each option was worse than the next. None offered hope. Yet, from an impossible position, now they'd vanquished a town that threatened their security.

Moreover, they inherited not one, but two towns' resources to exploit as he saw fit. Robert realized he faced new choices, not ones of scarcity, but abundance.

He radioed the Division Leaders for the third time since the shooting stopped. Every Leader reiterated they'd annihilated the enemy. Yet he still couldn't act, stunned into silence.

Samantha muttered, "Do something."

He gazed to her with a bemused expression. Then, like someone who'd discovered an unexpected answer to a puzzle, his face widened in realization. "Yes, sorry, of course." Speaker in hand, he switched the coms to broadcast to all radios. "We've won. Everyone muster at Admin."

Individuals trickled in. When the square filled, he gave a short speech. In a previous era, great leaders had used words to create an inspirational bridge between current practice and a greater purpose. Appeals to courage, sacrifice, and wisdom had become extinct along with empathy. Instead, he offered a utilitarian talk. "The entire population of Waltham and Norwood attacked us, and they all died. We lost seven."

Normally, he wouldn't have bothered saying who perished, as no one cared. Today, he felt a deeper connection with his audience, so he read the deceased's names.

Robert continued. "I've decided we'll repopulate Waltham and Norwood. Gus will run Waltham, and Samantha will run Norwood. You can all return to normal duties. Strat privileges are reinstated. Tonight, I'll draw up a roster of who lives where."

A short cheer erupted. Then something extraordinary happened. Rather than race off to log onto the Strat, most milled around, if only briefly, to discuss the morning's events. The abnormal behavior quickly expired. Once the initial excitement evaporated, so did the reason to continue chatting. So they dispersed in silence and retreated home.

Robert's decision to colonize his defeated opponents' towns troubled him. On one hand, it meant dividing their forces. However, if they didn't populate them, then others would eventually fill the void, and a potential new threat would grow in its place. Curiously, he believed the residents would remain loyal after colonizing Waltham and Norwood. It's the crowning irony of narcissism that an individual infected with the disease can't imagine the possibility another narcissist would fail to make them the center of their attention.

Across the empty parade ground, he saw Gus hobble towards him. Generosity overcame him, so he met Gus halfway. "I've promoted you to Waltham's boss. You're to go there today and review the status of inventory, defenses, housing, and infrastructure. Send me a brief within the next three days. Take five people to help you. You can also pick your own lieutenant. Waltham's day-to-day operations will be your responsibility, but you'll report to me on anything outside routine procedures. This includes any variation in trading, the inclusion, or expulsion of residents, any military changes whatsoever." Robert continued through his long list of orders that flowed in an unbroken stream of consciousness, until he finally stopped his monologue to ask whether Gus had 'any questions.'

"Why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you choose me to become boss?"

The question caught Robert completely off guard. He assumed Gus would gratefully accept the honor he bestowed on him. It baffled him, and he almost said, 'Because I can control you, because you're a cripple.' Before the words escaped his mouth, he had an epiphany. Perhaps Gus wouldn't consider the leadership offer appealing.

Being the boss drained him. It required much work for little return. He wondered why he accepted the position. The question's simplicity demanded an immediate reply. But he couldn't find one. It seemed nonsensical to act without purpose. Yet that conclusion appeared immutable.

Slowly, he remembered the answer. Someone must be leader, and he only trusted his own competence. Finally, he responded with sincerity, "Because I don't trust anyone else."

Gus accepted the promotion by offering his hand, which Robert shook warmly. After all the planning, the effort expended uniting the town, the battle's adrenaline, and the euphoria of victory, he experienced two exceedingly rare emotions: sociability and compassion. If Gus arrived a minute earlier or later, he may never have asked, "Have you seen Logan? She's been missing for days."

Gus's face flushed red. "I haven't talked to her for years." In the short pause following, his expression changed to fear, like someone who'd only recognized danger's signs after they'd stepped into its path. "Has anyone looked for her?"

"You're joking," Robert snorted.

"Who last saw her?"

"Me, I suspect. She burst into Admin days ago, demanding higher rations. I sent her packing, and she chucked a tantrum. She didn't show up for the next duty. She's bailed? Who knows? I'm doing you a favor and you interrogate me?"

"What about the boy? Have you seen Ryan?"

"No." The question annoyed Robert. But before his scowl became words, Gus had turned and hobbled away.

Robert yelled after him in a manner halfway between an enquiry and an order, "Where are you going?"

"To look for her."

***

Anxiety swooped on Gus like screeching bats as he struggled homeward. With thoughts swirling, he pushed ahead and tried to make sense of Logan's disappearance. Whatever the situation, he was certain she'd never leave Allston. Escape was hopeless. All towns exploited outsiders. Wherever she ran, she'd be treated a slave, or worse. They'd probably let her starve outside the gates. She'd become too weak to be useful, and she'd understand that.

Each time he saw her, she'd wasted further. Hollow cheeks drawn tight against bone. Baggy and ill-fitting clothes, like fabric draped over a shadow. The vision filled his thoughts, and a terrible guilt grabbed him by the throat as he realized the situation's truth. Pride had stopped him from helping her. In some perverse way, he wanted to punish her. She rejected him, and he'd reject her. Now he'd allowed vanity to put her health at risk, the woman he loved more than anything else.

When she left him six and a half years ago, he felt she cast him off like an unwanted shoe. After he assisted her to become independent, she abandoned him as soon as she could stand alone. She used him, and he foolishly allowed her to do so. He sacrificed dignity for a caring human touch.

She was pregnant so quickly after she'd left him, he wondered if she'd been unfaithful. When the baby's bulge first showed, he confronted her, accusing, threatening, and ranting. She told him never to return, and if he did, she'd shoot him.

As he stood outside her front door, her yelling at him with venom, and no sign she'd ever loved him, he decided that she had cheated on him, and he wasn't the father.

Perhaps she replaced him; maybe she used him. Whatever the reason, the image of her giving her body willingly to another man instantly reversed the polarity of his feelings for her, like a dark switch flipped. Everything reduced to deception. He believed her lies of loving him, and he accepted them uncritically. At that moment, he hated her as he hated nothing else in his life.

He turned his back on her and left, vowing never to speak to her or help her again. For the longest time he despised her, then slowly, as the heat of his rage dissipated, hatred faded to resentment and finally to grief which diminished with the passing years.

None of that mattered anymore. The thought that he failed to help her, when she desperately needed support, was too much guilt for Gus to carry.

# Chapter 35 – Chocolate

May 21, 2057, 1:00 p.m. – Allston

Gus spent aimless hours searching for Logan. The fear she'd died hung foremost in all his thoughts. When the afternoon arrived, he decided on a new strategy. More than anything, he needed to prove she wasn't dead. So he headed to the river.

An hour later, Gus caught sight of a vision that made his stomach knot and his throat clench. The metallic taste of dread filled his mouth as his bowels seemed to descend to his knees. Near the opposite bank, a woman floated facedown, snagged against a fallen tree. Her arm lay twisted in the branches. With the rest of her body free, she drifted back and forth, pivoting on her elbow as the current attempted to carry her downstream. Her carcass bobbed as it bounced against the timber that blocked her journey. The eddy created by the submerged trunk then carried her to the starting position, and so the cycle repeated.

For five minutes, he watched the corpse dance in the glistened surface, unable to decide an action. A macabre reminder of life's fragility. A human life, all its promises, all its hopes, so easily reduced to rotting meat. Carrion for carnivores, scavengers, and microorganisms, returned to the earth as manure.

Many bodies littered the shoreline. This one looked different. From the distance, it appeared to wear Logan's dress. It had Logan's frame, gaunt and pale.

He studied the bridge. Low concrete arches held the road aloft, where his eyes traced the path to the far shore, past the clearing where Waltham staged their invasion, to the thick bush beyond. He concluded it'd be easier to wade than spend hours pushing through dense shrub. He turned and scanned the vicinity. Fifty yards away, in the overgrowth, he spotted a pyramid of rubbish piled up behind a row of houses.

_This will do._ Cane clutched in hand, he hobbled to the putrid mass veiled in buzzing flies. Even from a distance, the stench made him gag. But he pressed ahead and slashed the air between steps. When he reached the stink's source, he held his nose, and examined the objects mixed in the mess for usefulness. _Yes._ From the mound's edge, he exhumed a plastic bucket. As he rotated it, he checked it quickly for holes. The lid snapped off and on securely. He rattled and tugged at the handle. _It feels solid._

With the pail in one hand and his cane in the other, he staggered to the shore. From there he followed the bend up river, to a spot where steep banks gave way to a gentle sandy slope.

He sat, removed his shoes, and then rose again. The crossing would be difficult. It'd be hard work to extricate himself from the opposite shore's mud and tangled overgrowth. He'd need his walking stick. But he also needed a free arm to swim. So Gus slid the cane down his top, its crook hooked outside his shirt's neck.

He shuffled into the cold brown water. The current soon knocked his feet out from under him. He plunged down, fully submerged. The deep dropped away below him. Above him the bucket bounced, drawn down by his weight. His fingers gripped its handle while his limbs flailed underneath. They kicked for a bottom they didn't find. The frequency and urgency of his spasms increased as his need for oxygen grew.

The situation's gravity struck him immediately. For years, he filtered almost every thought through the prism of his physical limitations. He had to fight to forget, and when he won, victory vanished at the next step. The disease knew him as intimately as he knew it. To stride into the water voluntarily stepped over foolishness's border. Impatience always exacted payment.

As his body moved downstream, he considered his death with the emotion one would invest in a shopping list. He thought of Logan, and a deep calmness welled inside. _She's died. I can let go._ His legs stopped kicking. _I'm ready._ The current carried him to the channel. The bucket's bottom stood two inches above the surface. Its erratic bobbing ended. It floated smoothly, carrying its submerged cargo on a journey that would end at the ocean.

Oxygen drained from his blood. In his life's final moments, his mind returned to his time with Logan. His health deteriorated soon after she deserted him. Within a year, it'd ravaged him. His watery smile disappeared. Life was pointless after Logan. He'd drifted without purpose for years. At least illness promised an ending. Meanwhile, he could just be a passenger, waiting in the chaos. Disease relieved him of decision's burden. Now the river took that choice.

The pail and its cargo continued downstream. _She's died. I'm certain. But her boy? He's gone too. And he isn't mine, anyway._ The callousness of his own thinking disgusted himself. When he pictured Ryan, a sense of duty returned.

_Self-pity is the worst indulgence._ From his epiphany, he realized stability was redundant. For years he struggled to stay upright, teetering on a cane's point, one hand gripped to the crook, the other held out, a bent counterweight. Experience dug a worn groove into which his perceptions flowed. Balance mattered on land, but it didn't in the water.

Submerged, he could use all limbs.

He reached up with his left hand and clawed at the handle. All fingers obeyed and wrapped the plastic handgrip. He thrust his right hand up towards the bucket's top. The slippery container swiveled in his grip, trying to evade capture as if it lived. It spun and flipped, refusing to submit. On the surface, water thrashed. The pail bounced violently, as if some great fish attacked bait suspended below a float. Blackness followed. _Last chance._

In a final desperate lunge he grasped the base, and the plastic rolled in his grip until it came under his right armpit, its circumference locked in place. The bucket's buoyancy raised his head to the surface.

The world returned to focus in a haze of spluttered coughs.

All around him, brown water swirled in eddies, carrying everything downstream, the same as it'd done for ten thousand years before. As he recovered, he resigned to being the river's passenger.

_I guess I don't die yet._ He laughed between coughing fits. _Time to move on._ He kicked towards the opposite shore. Within fifteen minutes, he reached the bank and collapsed.

He'd floated three hundred yards past the woman he believed was Logan. When he caught his breath, he pushed through the mire. At every step, he stumbled and crashed into the cold river. Glass and other debris, discarded by residents and subsequently swallowed by the mud, sliced chunks of flesh from his feet.

Two hours later, he arrived at the half-sunken willow that had trapped the corpse. Only one thought occupied his mind: _I must bury Logan._

He straddled the trunk and inched his way back over the shallows, using the tree as a bridge to the body. The knurled wooden joints, exposed by long broken limbs, continually snagged his clothes as he dragged his stomach down its length towards the water. Two yards away from the corpse, the timber dived below the surface. He continued, and his chest slid into the chill that squeezed him. He strained and grabbed the corpse's forearm. It was cold. Shocked, he withdrew. After a quick couple of breaths through his mouth, he reached again, ready to face death's reality.

The willow wouldn't release its grip. So he shuffled along farther until his balance became so precarious that he tumbled into the river and landed on the dead woman. The tree let go. They separated. She drifted. Gus shot out his hand, thrashing forward, attempting to grab her before the current stole her. His feet found the ground, and with it, he lunged at the woman. Her wrist fell into his grasp.

With the corpse firmly in grip, he grabbed at the tip of the last branch that glided past. It held, and so did his hands. For a while he didn't move, arms stretched between a dead woman and a dead tree. Desperate, his fingers resisted, then complied, and dug into swollen flesh. The wood dragged through his palm as the river pushed him farther from safety. _You can't stay here forever._

He released a guttural yell, pulled against the branch, and drew closer, until he could see the bark ripple in the water. His feet touched the bottom again. It gave him enough purchase to pull himself towards sheltered waters. Once the main trunk fell within reach, the current eased, allowing him to make relatively short work of the five yards to the bank.

With his energy sapped, his attempts to turn the woman resulted in him falling on the corpse, face-to-face with its empty staring eyes. It wasn't Logan. Gus collapsed beside the body, reduced to tears.

***

By midnight, Gus realized he'd reached his limits. He'd no hope of finding Logan in the dark. Logic dictated he should save his energy for when he could be effective. Eventually, when his feet barely moved forward, he did what he should've done hours ago, and headed home.

At 1:00 a.m., he stumbled the final fifty yards. _Not long now. Almost there._ His head flopped. The sight of his shuffling shoes offered relief. An illusionary progress, shattered every time his gaze rose. To bow seemed to use less energy. But if he stooped, he knew he'd drift off course, away from a faint trail barely visible when viewed from a wide angle.

He always left his front globe burning to help guide him home at night. As his head lifted to fix a straight path, he noticed in the reflected light that partly penetrated the deep shadows, a figure that appeared to move at a glacial pace, crawling towards the steps. He hobbled faster, an ungainly energy-sapping motion. Details came into focus. _It can't be. How could it be?_ After more rushed paces, he saw the outline of a frail woman, a long flowing dress draped over a shadow.

_Could it be her?_ Adrenaline surged. He staggered brisk and broken strides towards the apparition. "Logan, Logan!" he yelled. She didn't respond. His heart raced as she came into focus; the front light now illuminated her properly. She'd stopped moving, hand stretched to the first step.

Although he couldn't distinguish colors in the darkness, he recognized the hibiscus floral pattern. The dress sparked a memory. An oddity, whimsical color surrounded by dreary gray. _It's hers._ His head finally promised his heart he'd found her.

He stooped to tug at Logan's shoulders, but instead crashed beside her. His elbow smacked into the concrete steps at the foot of his house. After releasing a spontaneous expletive, he shook her. "Logan, it's me. Logan, Logan... Logan, it's Gus. Logan!"

The last yell had the desired effect. Her face rose from the cool earth, briefly caught his gaze. She muttered "Gus?" and slumped back into the dirt.

He tried to move her. But his fingers wouldn't grip properly, his biceps wouldn't contract, and his balance wouldn't hold. After several attempts, he quit and shuffled into his house. Tired legs stumbled.

Ten minutes later, he re-emerged with a hypodermic needle between his teeth and a saline drip clutched under his armpit. The steps hugged the external wall, as did he, shoulder to the clapboards, descending in jarring movements like a drunk.

Once he reached Logan, he slumped to his knees, pulled up her arm. When his gnarled fists refused to unfurl, he slapped her forearm roughly with the heel of his palm.

He spat out the needle. A thin plastic sleeve covered the point. The hardest concentration failed to produce the required fine motor skills. After shouted swearing, he refocused and allowed the syringe to fall from his fisted grip to the ground, where he grasped it awkwardly between his wrists.

In one fluid motion, he curled head and limbs together, delivering the needle's cover to his teeth. He bit down on it and jerked away, revealing a shiny spike.

For fifteen minutes, he fumbled, trying to prick her vein. When he finally succeeded, he collapsed beside her. It took time for his cramps to subside, and when they did, he fetched a blanket and pillow and did his best to make her comfortable.

Finished, he waited and hoped for a solution to an unsolvable problem. _I can't get fluids in her, I can't move her, and I can't leave her here. There's nothing else for it._ Decision made, he trekked off for help.

It took over thirty minutes pushing through the darkness to reach Lukka's house, a dark hovel overgrown with weeds. He bashed on the door. No response. He hammered again. The doorknob slipped in his weak two-handed grip. _Bloody hell!_

The back door had a handle. _Good!_ It responded to a shove and sprung open to reveal impenetrable blackness.

After fumbling through the kitchen and into a hallway, he saw Lukka, half-illuminated by the diffused moonlight. At the doorframe, he found the light switch. Sprawled across a filthy bed lay Lukka, dressed in a StratSuit.

The house stank of rotten socks. He shook Lukka. But he knew it was pointless. He reached over and depressed the disconnect switch located on the right hip, same place as all suits.

Lukka sprang to the sitting position. "What the hell!"

"We need to leave."

"What are you talking about?"

"I need your help now. Go back to your girlfriend later."

"What? What girlfriend?"

"Whatever that driftwood is for, do it another time," Gus said pointing to Lukka's crotch.

Lukka pulled a jumper from the pile of clothes beside him and dumped it on his lap. "I'm not going!"

"Listen here, you little—" Gus bit his bottom lip and paused. "I saved your life. Robert would've shot you. So you owe me. Get up."

Gus staggered from the room, leaving Lukka to dress in privacy. Lukka emerged a minute later. "What's all this about?"

Gus spoke while he hobbled for the front door. "Logan is ill. She'll die unless I get her inside and get a drip in. I can't do that without your help."

Lukka nodded. They exited and walked for Gus's house. The pace was slow, despite his best effort.

After a short silence Lukka asked, "What happens now?"

"What with?" Gus snapped.

Lukka blushed and stared at the ground. "Will the war change things?"

Gus's scowl faded when he looked at the boy's bowed head. "Sorry. I'm tired. Nothing will change."

"Good."

"It's bad, not good."

"How?"

How? He must be kidding.

Gus stopped and faced Lukka. "Seriously, you think all this is okay?" He waved theatrically at the surrounding environment.

Lukka shrugged. "I'm happy."

The answer annoyed Gus, so he hobbled off. Then he realized he allowed exhaustion to dictate his emotions, and he turned to Lukka and said, "Keep up."

Halfway argumentative, Lukka said, "Yeah, the town is bad. But the Strat is great."

"Is that all there is?"

"I dunno."

"What do you want from life, Lukka?"

"I don't know..."

After a minute's silence Gus asked, "What makes you happy?"

"Veronica."

"Is she who you were just with?"

"Yes."

Fear of Logan's death hung heavy in his mind. If she died, there'd be no one to remember her, except him. Given the rate his disease progressed, he'd soon join her. After he passed, it'd be as if they never existed. In this world, only empty narcissism survived. A pointless, hollow shell of a planet. The thought that anyone would attempt to breathe meaning into the Strat ignited Gus's rage. Life shouldn't bend to a digital fantasy.

"What if I told you she isn't real?"

"But she is," Lukka yelled.

"Love isn't joy. It's endless pain. Something endured for someone else. Love is sacrifice's residue."

"Why are you always so happy then?"

Beneath Lukka's sarcasm lay a serious question that made Gus pause. "Your expression is a promise."

"So you're faking it... lying."

"No. Happiness isn't required for friendship."

Lukka remained silent. Two minutes later he said, "I love Veronica."

"You've never given up anything for her. She's offered herself, unconditionally. If I had to define your relationship, I'd say she's your emotional slave. But she isn't even that. She is a projection of your own imagination. You're in love with yourself."

"You're full of shit," Lukka snarled.

Gus eyeballed him. "Yes! That's it. Be angry."

"I am."

"No, you're not." Gus thumped the boy on his chest. "Come on, where's your fury?"

"Fuck you. Cripple." Lukka turned.

"Off to sulk now?"

Lukka spun to Gus and shoved him. Gus stumbled backward. "Is that the best you've got?" He struck Lukka's cheek.

Stunned, Lukka wiped the blood from his mouth. He screamed and punched into Gus. The two fell to the ground, Lukka squatting above him, raining blows on his head.

Gus raised his knee sharply, striking Lukka's balls. Pain doubled him over, and he rolled off Gus, clutching his groin, moaning and rocking back and forth in a semi-fetal position. They both breathed hard, and then calmed.

After minutes spent sprawled on the grass, Lukka asked while staring skyward, "If Veronica doesn't matter, why are you fighting me?"

"There's only one thing worse than hate. Nothing. You're angry? Good! At least you felt something in reality." Gus rolled to face Lukka. "Are you furious? That's how I feel. Logan will die tonight if you don't help. So help me."

Lukka's scowl melted to a frown. He lifted himself, stepped to Gus, and stood over him for ten seconds before extending his arm to raise Gus to his feet. The journey's remainder passed in silence.

When they reached Logan, Gus dropped to his knees and checked for a pulse. He brushed the hair from her face and gazed up to Lukka. "We must get her inside. I can't help."

Gus struggled to stand and withdrew from Lukka's path.

When Lukka bent to lift her, he spun, grabbed his nose, and stepped back. Gus didn't understand Lukka's response until the seventeen-year-old boy said, "Shit. What stinks?"

"Yes, it's shit."

"I'm not touching that."

"What if you were in the ditch?" Gus snarled. "And someone left you to die because a little smell bothered them?" His voice raised an octave in anger. "Look at her. Look! What if this was Veronica?"

The words froze Lukka. Something connected, and it showed in his eyes. Silent, he knelt to pick her up and grimaced at the stench. "She weighs nothing," Lukka said, surprised.

"Set her on the floor just inside."

Lukka obeyed, climbing the steps to enter Gus's house. Gus followed.

"We'll put her in bed. First, remove her dress."

"Naked?"

"Yes. Her clothes are wet and dirty. They'll make her sick."

Lukka blushed.

"It's just tits and ass. The same as every other woman. I'll get a cloth to wipe her down. Hunt through the kitchen drawers. You'll find a pair of scissors."

Gus pointed Lukka to the kitchen and then hobbled to the bathroom. A plastic bucket rested in the stainless tub, brown at the extremities from rust. The faucet refused to cooperate. "Bloody hell." After he paused for his pride, he yelled again, "Lukka, I can't open the tap... You'll have to do everything."

Shears in his hands, Lukka joined Gus near the sink. At Gus's instructions, he filled the pail with tepid water, grabbed a cloth, and carried them to Logan, where the boy knelled at her side.

"Be quick. Cut her dress off. Wipe her down. Then put her on the bed."

Lukka stared at Gus, held up the scissors, and shrugged.

"Just tear it down the middle. Hurry."

Lukka hacked with dull blades and ripped the fabric, which parted easily in a frayed straight line. The sight made them both gasp. Her bones protruded sharp and high, her skin sunken and taunt.

Tears formed in Gus's eyes. He knelt beside her, grabbed the wet cloth, and cleaned the worst of the filth. "Take her to the bed."

Lukka removed his jacket, coated in feces from lifting her earlier. He dropped it to the ground, lifted Logan, and walked her to the single cot. After he lowered her gently, he drew the blankets over her.

Gus whispered, "Thank you." He stumbled to the bedside. "We must get the drip in now." Lukka held the gear, and Gus talked him through the process. When they finished they retired to the kitchen.

Gus pointed at the yellowed cupboards above the kitchen sink. "You'll find a treat in there."

Lukka rummaged through the shelves' contents. When his fingertips fell on a foil vacuum-packed bag, Gus said, "That's it. Grab the two mugs below. Open the silver bag and shake half a handful into each mug. Then fill it with hot water and stir. Spoons are near your left hand."

Lukka followed the instructions, brought the steaming cups to the table, and sat.

"Try it."

Immediately after he sipped, his eyes shot down to the swirling brown liquid. A quizzical expression ensued. He leaned forward, took another sip, smiled broadly, and then guzzled it down.

"Slowly. You're drinking the last of it in existence."

Lukka lowered his cup. "What is it?"

"Chocolate."

Satisfied with the beverage's name, Lukka gulped it down until the final drop drained.

"You did well tonight, Lukka. Thank you."

Lukka's face turned red. He twisted his mug thoughtfully. "How come you've got all this shit?"

"What shit?"

"That drip thingy."

"I don't use the Strat much. That leaves me a lot of free time."

"Sure. But you didn't answer." Lukka paused. When no response came he said, "Will the drip make her better?"

"It'll help. But she needed more than just that. Before I saw you I injected her with medicinal nanobots."

"Nano whats?"

"Ah... I forget. History is a mystery for you. Things weren't always this way. Scientists had cured most diseases and illnesses with powerful computers that allowed them to probe the smallest microbe, unlocking its deepest secrets. Even the aging process was reversible. But once Strat addiction set, everyone stopped working. After the Killer Printer Virus, meds became very rare, nanomeds rarer still."

"What do they do? The nanomeds?"

"I've only read bits from the old library. I don't understand most of it. They are microscopic, self-replicating robots that target damaged cells and repair or destroy them."

"How long will it take to work?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you get one for yourself?"

"They are hard to find."

"You got one though?"

Gus became visibly cranky. "This place is a shit hole. It's insufferable. There's no point or meaning. Each day I wake up thinking it can't possibly be worse. Yet every morning proves me wrong."

"What? You want to die?"

"Don't be stupid," Gus snapped.

Lukka sat in silence for a few minutes, eyeing Gus's still full mug. Gus pushed it towards Lukka. "Here. You have it."

Lukka drank it in one go. Done, he wiped the chocolate from his lips. As he lowered the cup, he noticed the smear transferred to his fingers. Without hesitating, he licked it clean. "My throat hurts."

"Yes. You haven't spoken so much in your whole life. You'll recover soon enough."

Lukka twirled his mug again. He stuck his hand in trying to extract the last residue. "Who'd you get meds for, if not you?"

"Logan's boy."

"Is he ill, like you?"

"No... and he never will be." Gus rubbed his forehead. The trace of happiness born from watching Lukka enjoy the chocolate evaporated. "She'd never abandon Ryan. Something is wrong, terribly wrong."

"Should we search for him?"

"No. Not in the darkness. I don't know where to begin. Ryan is safe, or he isn't. Either way, I can't help him tonight. I must sleep now. Otherwise I'll be no use at sunrise."

Gus pointed to the silver foil bag. "Take that with you."

A wide grin covered Lukka's face. As Lukka grabbed the bag, Gus rose from his chair. Exhausted muscles barely complied. Cane in hand, he staggered to Lukka and placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "There's hope in you. Life is the sum of small pleasures and hardships. Things you'll never experience in the Strat."

After Lukka departed, Gus slumped into the armchair opposite Logan. Sleep seized him immediately. In his dream, he stood at the bottom of a hill, where he gazed to a lone tree on the peak. It was an ancient bristlecone, with history and the time before etched on its trunk in twisted lines and knots. Below its stubble canopy everything died. And when he stared at the earth, it'd turned black at his feet. An oily quagmire that swallowed him; every struggle sunk him another inch.

# Chapter 36 – Awakening

May 22, 2057, 8:00 a.m. – Allston

Day turned to night, then day again. By late morning, Logan's ashen white appearance improved as color returned to her face. When the mid-afternoon sun blazed through the window, she woke. Sluggish, she pulled herself upright.

The world blinked into focus. Opposite, she saw Gus slouched in the armchair beside her bed. His eyes dark and sunken, even in sleep. It took a while to realize she was in Gus's house. When clarity arrived, urgency followed immediately in its wake.

She yelled, "Gus, Gus."

He stirred in his chair, struggling to rouse himself. Eyelids peeled open slowly as if glued shut. He smiled at her.

"Where's Ryan?" The question floated away, as if spoken in a dream. She asked repeatedly. But he seemed caught in a stupor. When she yelled, he jolted and woke from his half sleep. She demanded an answer, but this time his silence meant something. It wasn't the response she wanted, so she pushed, and when his gaze fell to the ground as he spoke, she howled.

The odds of finding him alive were close to zero. But they looked regardless. The effort helped calm Logan's hysteria to a more manageable debilitating anxiety. The nanobots repaired the poison's damage and even the ravages visited on her internal organs by starvation. But her paper-thin body yielded a dangerously low reservoir of energy.

Gus begged her to rest and eat. Naturally, she didn't listen.

After two hours, she'd no choice, her heart close to quitting. Ironically, her poor physical condition forced her to sit and relax, and the quiet gave her a chance to reflect, and to think rationally.

A certainty, partially hidden behind a mental shroud, nagged her. She struggled with her memory. As hard as she fought her mind, reality, dreams, and hallucinations muddled in a thick porridge of confusion. But one thing stood out because of the discussion's difficulty. The conversation seemed so real, but standing here, Gus gave no clues she'd said anything to him.

Although it pained her to ask, Ryan's life balanced on the question's answer. "Did we talk a few days back about what happened at Waltham?"

Gus peered at her quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

Her courage disappeared instantly. She couldn't discuss Waltham again. Not now, and maybe never. So she changed her approach and said, "I remember talking to you about Galveston Island, when I worked for the professor."

"I don't. You were hallucinating."

"I wasn't. I did talk about it."

"Well, it wasn't with me."

The situation perplexed Logan. The conversations seemed as real as that moment. Yet despite her best attempts, she couldn't recall seeing Gus, or even recognizing his voice.

She experienced many hallucinations. Most left her uncertain. But she knew those discussions transpired in reality.

If it wasn't Gus, how did that person know so much about us? Why would anyone pretend to be Gus?

The more questions she asked, the less sense it made. As logic disappeared, so did her self-control. Fear returned. It foisted unwanted visions of Ryan's death on conscious thoughts. An undercurrent, lifted to the surface. Hysteria welled, and threatened to consume her.

Fight, stay calm. Keep control.

The key to her boy's location lay hidden in that conversation with Gus, or whoever pretended to be him. Push too hard and the answer would vanish. Above all, she required calm. But she also needed to act.

Thoughts swirled until a sparrow distracted her. The bird tended its nest, five yards from where they sat on old wooden fruit crates on an abandoned house's front porch. The animal perched on the crumbled windowsill, timber covered in weeds and vines. It fluffed and settled on its eggs, oblivious to Gus and Logan.

As she watched the creature, her attention shifted to her breathing. In the calm moment that followed, she listened to her body's rhythm. The answer visualized, she blurted, "Trevor picked me up outside Admin three days ago. Then I fell ill."

# Chapter 37 – Dead Tank

May 23, 2057, 1:12 p.m. – Allston

Gus flung Trevor's door open. Furnished simply, the room contained a few metal chairs, an oak day stand, and a dining table barely large enough to fit two people. On it sat a small pair of cherry red gym shoes.

Bright color surrounded by drabness—the specter left Gus frozen. Logan pushed past him. "He took Ryan!"

"We don't know. Why would he?" he called after her. But she ignored him. As she checked each room, she yelled. The urgency written plainly in her voice, shrill and desperate. The cries dimmed, until he heard her reach the backdoor, where the sound's movement stopped, calls for Ryan replaced by a wail.

His legs became hollow and empty, foreign objects that'd soon collapse. As she sobbed in the hallway, he sat and stared at the shoes. At one point, he lifted to go to her. But no words or actions existed that'd help. And when he reflected on how he'd failed her, he realized he'd be an unwelcome intrusion. So he waited and focused on the options.

Much later, she returned. As she stretched to touch Ryan's sneakers, Gus stood and grabbed the cane he'd hooked over the chair.

She turned to him and whispered, "What do we do?" Her head dropped on his shoulders, and she sobbed. Caught in indecision, he reached to embrace her, but stopped short. For a moment he hovered. Until the weight of her tears brought his arm down and he pulled her to him gently.

After her cries subsided to sniffles, Logan wiped her cheeks and sat. Desperate to console her, to fix the problem, to find her boy, he sifted his memory for any information that'd help. "Nancy often works the gate shift. Maybe she's seen something."

Her eyes glistened and darted briefly. "Okay, but she'll need encouragement," Logan replied as she mimed cocking a gun.

"No, she won't."

Logan's brows furrowed.

"Believe me."

She flashed a quick forced smile, and they departed for the South Gate, where they expected to find Nancy.

While Gus hobbled, Logan orbited him and searched any likely place for her son. He watched her run up alleys, streets, behind houses, and through drains. For a while, she'd disappear, and then she'd cross his path and repeat the process on the opposite side.

When they arrived at the South Gate, they found Nancy sitting on the edge of the hole in the overpass. Her legs dangled and swayed as she chucked rocks at the dead tank below. Beside her sat a small pyramid-shaped pile of rubble. After inspecting the first thing she laid her hands on, a basalt chunk, she threw it at the turret, which reverberated with a hollow thud.

"They have explosives strapped to their hulls!" Gus yelled to Nancy.

Nancy craned backward and, upon seeing Gus, retorted, "Aww, bullshit!" She grabbed another bit of rubble, wound her arm, as if tightening a spring, and then hurled it.

"Every tank uses them to counteract antitank missiles, RPGs. It destroys the missile before it burns through the hull."

With her fist high in the air, additional projectile ready to fling, she raised an eyebrow. When she saw Gus's expression, she deflated.

Gus laughed. "Don't worry, you can't trigger it that easily."

"Prick!" She flicked the debris behind her, stood, dusted herself off, and gave Gus a hug. When she disengaged, she glanced to Logan and asked Gus, "What's wrong?"

He explained the situation. As he discussed the details, Logan broke into tears.

"There's something that might help..." Nancy murmured.

Logan gazed up to her, "Anything... anything is worth trying."

"At the talk, I saw Trevor with a woman."

"You mean the lecture with Professor Igan?"

"Yes. She told him to find the professor. Then she gave him a code; it was Alpha, Foxtrot, Delta, One, Nine, Echo."

"How do you know?" Gus asked skeptically.

Nancy smiled—a generous and proud smile, "I can read lips. I was deaf a few years ago!"

"Meds?" Gus asked.

"Yep," Nancy replied.

"This is our best lead. Can you remember anything else?"

"Not really."

"Think hard!"

"I am!" Nancy snapped.

Gus raised his eyebrow and, in a silent message to Nancy, shot a glance towards Logan. Nancy blushed and continued calmly. "The old woman offered Trevor a position on the PedCom executive... No, the government. If he found the BQCs."

Logan lifted her head; her eyes sparkled. "Only the CEO of PedCom would ask for such a thing and offer such a prize. It must be Katharine Wilde! Trevor's after the professor, to reach the BQCs. That all makes sense."

"So he would go to Galveston Island. But why take the boy?" Gus asked.

Logan's expression drooped as if struck by a sudden realization. Her eyes darted feverishly. She seemed to wobble on her feet. Gus shot out his hand to steady her.

Logan cried, "He's using him as a hostage. He'll threaten—"

"We must stay positive. We can't lose faith," Gus said.

"Yes!" Logan yelled. She paused, subdued, and then repeated "yes," but quieter.

"We should go to Galveston," Gus said.

"No, we can't. We know the professor's location. Trevor probably knows too. But Trevor's intentions aren't clear. Maybe he'll report directly to Katharine, or he might head straight to Galveston. We don't know," Logan said.

"It's our best bet."

"I can't gamble my son's life."

Gus dropped his gaze to the concrete cracks. Everyone stood silent for a minute.

"It's rumored Norwood burnt to the ground." Nancy looked at Gus and continued. "Also, you've been AWOL. There's a warrant for your arrest."

Gus groaned. "Don't worry about that." As he scrutinized the black smoke that billowed over the southern horizon, he said, "Norwood wouldn't burn their town. It must be Trevor, on route to Galveston."

"It might've been an accident. We need more information," Logan replied.

Everyone lapsed into silence again. Exhausted, Gus lowered awkwardly into a sitting position. Nancy drifted to the overpass's precipice. Stones scuttled as she kicked absentmindedly. The debris bounced over the fissures that spiraled from the blast's epicenter and tumbled over the edge. Past the exposed and twisted reinforcement rods that held out chunks of concrete like floating islands.

Logan tried sitting with Gus. But after twenty seconds, she jumped to her feet. "We can't just wait here."

From behind Gus, Nancy's voice blurted out with a gold prospector's excitement upon discovering the mother lode, "Apparently I'm superwoman!"

"Superwoman?" Gus scoffed and faced Nancy, his palm to the sun as he shielded his eyes from light.

"Yes!"

"How do you even know about Superwoman?"

"I read many old books, from that funny building."

"Yes, it's called a library," Gus replied.

"Well, I am Superwoman! I can do anything on the Strat."

Logan snapped, "Everyone can—"

"No, you can't," Nancy retorted. "I can find this Katharine on the Strat and get the information you need."

Logan shrugged her shoulders. "I don't understand."

"I do," Gus interrupted. A great gulf separated the Strat from reality for Gus. To him it appeared drained of color. He realized his experience differed to others, to the point where communication bordered on impossible. The Strat junkies spoke a different language, when they bothered to speak at all. More significantly, two years ago, he accidently broke the Strat's physics during a rage. So he found it easy to accept Nancy's story.

"The problem is Katharine never logs on. Too great a security risk," Gus said.

"How is it you know everything?" Nancy asked.

"I read too. I just don't stop at comic books."

"Get lost!" Nancy replied. A smile's hint, buried in her mouth's corner, showed she intended no malice.

"We need someone who knows Katharine. Someone who can help us with this code," Gus said.

"That'd be Brenna," Logan said. "Professor Igan is Katharine's father. They have a bad relationship. So Brenna acts as the go-between. But Brenna rarely logs onto the Strat either."

"So you read books too?" asked Nancy.

"A bit. But I worked with Brenna, years ago."

Nancy looked towards Norwood. "What about a smoke signal?"

"The chances of her being within range are zero. She might be anywhere," Gus said dismissively.

Logan's tone rose, sounding more hopeful. "There are only two places she'd be, Galveston with the professor, or New York with Katharine."

"We must see this differently," Gus said. On reflection he added, "We can't be in New York to set off a smoke signal. But perhaps Nancy could... at least by proxy."

# Chapter 38 – Khaki Fields

May 23, 2057, 2:30 p.m. – Rural district, New York

Brenna pulled the hacksaw blade across the metal. It gave a sharp noise each time it gouged the rust to silver. When the last chain fell, she glanced up at Victoria, who rubbed her wrists. The woman seemed to scowl at her. Confused, Brenna's gaze lingered, until she remembered their trauma, and she disengaged to focus on the boy.

Big brown eyes stared up from beneath a mop of unruly hazel hair. The wild fear had softened. He inched closer. When she'd rescued him, it'd been almost instinctive. But now, as she examined his frightened expression, emotion overwhelmed her from nowhere, as if the simple act of seeing him activated an automated response, hard-coded in the far depths of her consciousness. Automatically, she reached down and brushed his fringe from his forehead, revealing a grubby face and a small sparkle in his eyes.

When she looked at Victoria again, she noticed her scowl had shifted to the boy. Caught, Victoria flushed momentarily. Free, she stepped back and demanded in a tone reminiscent of a tightly laced teacher of yesteryears, "Everyone up, let's go."

"Where to?" Brenna asked.

"God's work must be done!"

"I don't understand."

"There are sinners in the city that need saving," Victoria retorted, her words stabbing and haughty.

"You experienced something traumatic, you're not thinking clearly."

"God told me he needs us there," Victoria barked at Brenna, teeth bared, as she pointed in the direction she intended to travel. "Salvation waits for these sinners. Who are you to stand in the path of God's work?" She gripped her hips. Rigid, she glared at Brenna.

"But they'll burn you," Brenna said and drew the boy closer.

"No, God will save us, as he already did. He sent you as his instrument. I said God, I'm ready, take me now if that's your plan. But he freed us so that we may spread his message."

Stunned, Brenna remained silent at first. When everyone except the boy edged towards Victoria, Brenna said, "You don't have to follow her."

With her left palm to her hips, Victoria stared at her disciples and jabbed her right index finger at Brenna, who stood a few feet to her side. Speechless and red-faced, Victoria's outstretched arm wobbled with each prod. Then her mouth closed tight and her bottom lip trembled. Like a volcano building pressure, words boiled below the surface until they erupted in a shrill accusation. "Don't be swayed by this sinner. The devil is testing you now, testing your love for God."

The boy clutched Brenna, and she pressed his face to her belly and patted his hair. "You can't believe this rubbish." She searched the others' eyes. But the young man and woman's heads dropped quickly.

Next, she looked to Maria, who whispered, "We must go."

Victoria smirked and stepped out to snatch the boy. Without thinking, Brenna slapped her hand down, and did it with such force she shocked herself.

Outraged, Victoria launched into a tirade. "You're here to do Satan's bidding, to poison this innocent child with his vile teachings. Are you taking him to Wilde, to make this lamb the demon's disciple?"

Brenna wasn't in the mood to argue. She whisked her gun from where she'd tucked it under her belt, and pointed it directly at Victoria's head. "Back off, or die. Your choice."

Victoria stood staunch and unblinking. Brenna issued her threat so forcefully, so determinately, that she never considered what she'd do if Victoria didn't retreat.

But she didn't need to worry. Maria reached for Victoria and drew her away gently. Victoria stepped backward, held her gaze momentarily, and then joined Maria. She led and the disciples followed. As they departed, Maria glanced over her shoulder towards Brenna and gave her a look she'd never forget. An expression that hovered between an accusation and empathy.

Brenna lowered her pistol after they cleared fifty yards. Once the distance reduced them to indistinguishable forms, she dropped on her backside, her palms braced on the ground behind her, weapon opposite the boy.

"I'm sorry about that. We can't go with them."

The boy nodded twice, but remained hushed. The two sat for fifteen minutes and watched the refugees march through the fields towards the horizon.

"You haven't told me your name."

The boy just stared at the earth beneath his shoes, knees drawn to his chin.

Stroking his hair she said, "Everything will be fine." He gazed up and smiled.

"We must escape this hell hole," she said as she rose to her feet, dusted the grass seeds with her spare hand, then put her gun back into her trousers' rear—cold metal wedged against her flesh by a camo canvas belt.

Alone, it'd take three hours to reach the colonel's location. With the boy, it'd take considerably longer. As she worried about finding Katharine, she also realized the chances she'd locate the colonel in a functional state were slim.

Beside her, the nameless boy's green eyes sparkled. The fear they'd shown earlier dissipated. She felt his fingers reach into hers. Warmth spread through her, rising from her stomach to her chest.

As the afternoon lengthened, the distance they'd cover before nightfall shortened. They needed to find somewhere safe to sleep, where she could reflect on the situation.

Yesterday Brenna's decisions hung on an equation's balance. The known and the unknown weighed and measured objectively, the contents poured through an intricate mechanical calculus. The process delivered an objective result, and objectivity delivered her from responsibility. Whatever the outcome, it was simply the best course of action. Emotion didn't matter.

Today, as she gently squeezed the boy's hand, the equation's solution dissolved, and responsibility became everything. But logic defined her. So instead of rejecting it, she inverted the math and set the variables against the opposite end.

She convinced herself that to push ahead for the colonel invited disaster. Chances were he'd been destroyed. Without him, she'd no means to find Katharine. Worse, danger increased every minute. The mob might discover them or the jets. This left only one rational choice. They'd trek to the airfield and sleep overnight, and resume their journey before sunrise.

When Victoria disappeared into a valley, Brenna turned, holding the boy's hand, and started for their destination.

After two hours' walk, the once quaint but repetitive crumbled suburban houses retreated under a new landscape's advance. Ahead stretched vast open fields covered with endless wheat. The kernels looked light, brittle, and shrunken. Not at all what Brenna imagined. Instead of meadows of gold glistening in the low afternoon sun, she saw dried khaki gray.

A harvester sat motionless nearby, stopped mid cut. The cabin door broken, gunshot holes through the windshield. Black crows squawked at each other, fighting over drying blood pooled on the vinyl seats.

Brenna positioned herself between the boy and the machine and told him, "We must move fast. Let's cross the paddock, okay?" He nodded. Satisfied they were alone, she grabbed his hand and ran towards the road's opposite side. She lifted him and tossed him over the barbed wire farm fencing, where he almost disappeared in the uncut grain.

On the horizon, she observed thick smoke. "They're burning the crops...madness. At least the wind will blow the fire away." Deep in the field she noted power lines leading in the airfield's general direction. She pointed at them. "They'll take us to a place we can sleep for the night. By this time tomorrow you'll be safe."

She smiled at him, and he immediately responded in kind.

"We need to walk two more hours. Can you do that?"

He nodded, and she patted his head. When they departed she said, "See all this?" Her hand traced the horizon. "Once it was a forest. Beautiful trees, and animals everywhere... But they burnt it to the ground, the lot, so they could grow wheat. Now they're burning that too."

For hours they pushed on silently. The earth moved under their feet in a slow and steady pace. Every so often, she caught herself gazing at him. The boy didn't complain; he kept walking, and his behavior made her proud.

Field after field fell to the distance, until, from the ridge of a gentle hill, they spotted a small town. When they drew close enough to see the houses' windows glint in the sunshine, she grabbed his arm. "Sit here for a while. I'll find somewhere to sleep."

Five hundred yards away to their right, the hill crested. "I'll be over there." She pointed. "I won't be long. Don't move."

Once again, he nodded and sat, disappearing into wild wheat.

Ahead, grain retreated to tufts of course grass, clutched to an earth that rose twenty feet over a distance of forty. Where Brenna faced a gentle ascent from the town's side, on her left the hill dropped to a short cliff, as if half the mound had been excavated. She cut to her right and wove through clumped shrubs, thick and patchy, which tumbled down the slope that remained hidden from the town.

As she drew close to the crest, first she sank to her knees. For the last three yards, she slid to her stomach and crawled. When she parted the vegetation at the edge, the sky appeared ahead and a thin urban landscape below. Rubble toppled over the precipice, propelled by her elbows. The stones made dull knocking noises as they bounced off the exposed basalt face. Flat against the earth, she retrieved the binoculars from her backpack and surveyed the village for evidence of life. Doors ripped off hinges, contents strewn from inside, like disemboweled dwellings. Bloody corpses littered the main street. To her relief, they hadn't burnt the homes.

Black crows gaggled and squawked as they worked the bodies. The scene had an aura of desertion. It appeared the mob moved on long ago.

When she returned to the boy, he smiled at her nervously. She knelt beside him and held his shoulder. "We can sleep here. But there are dead people we must pass first. Do you want me to blindfold you?"

He nodded yes.

"I'll put it on just before the road." She took his hand and led him to the hill's base, where she ripped a length of fabric from her shirtsleeve and tied it around his head.

The town itself lay a hundred yards in front. A single street cut through its center and drifted away towards the horizon through flat wheat fields. Across the large unmarked road, decaying timber houses occupied big blocks.

The place possessed a unique quality that defied description. It wasn't until they reached the outskirts that she could discern details. Cane chairs arranged thoughtfully on a porch, a tire swing hung below an oak tree, picket fences and peeling white paint, yellowed and dull. Nothing special, but collectively the picture seemed wrong.

Structures had succumbed to weather, but someone slowed their slide into oblivion. They weren't smothered with vines. The lawns well kept. Shrubs and trees didn't roost in road cracks. No decaying mountains of rubbish. Aside from the debris obviously dumped in the mob's wake, the town looked tidy. The buildings presented like homes, not pit stops to the Strat.

Whoever lived here had cared for the village. Now they lay dead in the street. Bloodied, hacked, and butchered. All dressed in black and white.

She led him through the carnage, weaving a line between bodies. All the while she chatted nervously, a deliberate attempt at distraction. When she lifted her gaze from the ground to the path ahead, she froze, horrified. A girl lay face up, perhaps the same age as the boy, seven at most. A worn teddy bear clutched in her arms. Its black eyes stared at Brenna. Light brown fabric washed dark on one side where it'd soaked the girl's blood.

She suppressed a cry. With the boy to consider, she couldn't allow the situation to unhinge her.

Once inside the closest building, she took the blindfold off. "Alright, darling, we'll sleep here tonight. We're safe here. But don't look outside. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Now let's eat."

She rummaged through the cupboards. A few open, most remained shut. A lazy mob, they only stole the choicest items and abandoned the rest. Enough remained for a meal.

After they ate, she dragged a mattress from a bedroom to a den in the basement. If the gangs invaded again, they could barricade the entrance and escape via the cellar door. An imperfect plan, but the best available. She gathered clean linen from the laundry closet and returned, boy in tow, to settle for the night. When she finished making the bed, he jumped on it, feet to knees, bounced thrice, then slumped and dozed.

With much to do, and feeling tired herself, she didn't waste time. She dumped the backpack's contents on the mattress's end and audited what fell out. The supplies the colonel provided had dwindled. By tomorrow, she hoped they'd be in Galveston.

For a while, she contemplated the options for if they were marooned in New York. But the thought upset her, and she decided they'd escape. But she considered it prudent to prepare for the worst. The jets might not respond to the beacon. So she walked to the kitchen, gathered cans, packed them, and stopped work for the night.

In the morning, in the hour before dawn's first light, the boy shook her vigorously. "Quick, see the lights. Quick!"

She tried to roll over and ignore him. Then adrenaline surged.

They found us!

She panicked. Fearfully, reluctantly, she allowed him to drag her out the front door. Heart pounding, she wondered how much more stress her body would tolerate.

For over a decade, she'd been cloistered with the professor. She worried she'd lost the ability to defend herself. Work took everything, and she'd given it everything, perhaps even her personality. As she watched him, she found the courage to open the door. Whoever she'd been, she didn't know. But that didn't matter anymore. She was now his mother. And that had meaning.

Dread vanished, replaced by stunned wonderment. She couldn't believe the sight. She ran into the house, towed the boy hand-in-hand, up the steps to the roof courtyard. From their higher vantage, they observed a sea of laser light columns. Hundreds, in many colors and intensities, pulsed into the night sky.

# Chapter 39 – Gunfight

May 23, 2057, 4:08 p.m. – Near Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, New York

Hussein halted two miles short from the main gate. A long column of humanity snaked their way towards the city's exit. With the road blocked by citizens, the vehicle couldn't travel farther. As Hussein stopped, he glanced out the driver's window at the fresh posters liberally plastered on abandoned buildings. They depicted a cartoonish man, drawn with exaggerated rat-like features. A slogan framed the graphic, "Enslave the Slavers." Smaller print at the poster's bottom read, "Authorized by Carl Gunther."

Ahead, an alley joined the boulevard. The crowd began to pack tight. Already difficult to navigate, Hussein worried the additional people that flowed from the side streets would soon force them to stop. He craned forward, attempting to gauge the danger. But the human tide made it impossible.

As the vehicle inched ahead, he lowered the window for a better view. Like a dog, he stuck his head out, and scanned the brick and concrete apartments that flanked them. More posters glared down from balconies and walls. A slogan written in bold letters, "The Strat is Freedom. Fight For Your Freedom." Others depicted a stylized portrait of Carl, drawn in green and gold, looking up and away, as if staring at a bright new future.

Footfalls grew louder behind, a low rumble of a refugee army. From the rearview mirror, Hussein watched a growing wall of humanity. The boulevard flickered from view, replaced by endless individuals. He faced his team. Forbidding silence responded. "It's too dangerous to push on. We'll retreat to a safer place, find a high spot, and recon the situation."

The soldiers nodded.

Bangs and knocks shook the bus as it turned into the flow of people headed for New York's West Gate. The pressure stopped them sixty degrees into the turn. He shot a nervous glance to Katharine, who responded with a nod, terror written in her eyes.

Inside, the vehicle darkened; a slow current of torsos, heads and shoulders blocked their view. The human tide fell like hail, the drummed beat of palms on the bus's panels. With intention's onset, they became a rhythm, until in unison the thumps transformed into shakes that rocked them. When Hussein felt the wheels to his right lift, he blasted the horn and revved the motor. The chassis bounced when the crowd released its grip, and he inched forward.

Strangers' faces covered the front windscreen. They stared at him, cursing, until the bumper pushed them aside and new sneers appeared. Each person ejected from sight made him wince.

As the vehicle's head faced the flow, a gap cleared ahead. Teeth gritted, Hussein stabbed the accelerator in pulses. The bus lurched, as if ready to pounce on prey. The space widened. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Like a kayak navigating rapids, they jostled, until the danger receded just as quickly as it arrived. People thinned, and the bus hastened. Within ten minutes, the crowd vanished as they retreated at speed.

A mile away, a hill rose to a cliff fifty yards high. The narrow road twisted around its rocky face and disappeared behind, reemerging on a gentler slope. Solid asphalt became tar drifts. Slabs separated by cracks in the earth that widened as they progressed. The path's side crumbled. Rubble piled opposite, fallen from overhead. The bus bounced and rocked, and when the path proved impassable, he parked. After he nodded to his squad, he exited the minibus.

"Leave if I don't return within ninety minutes."

The soldiers' sweaty palms gripped their rifles, hands concealed in overcoats draped over their knees. Each team member scanned their small arc of responsibility, weapons pointed out like hidden porcupine quills.

He ran for half an hour until he reached a tower high enough to reconnoiter the situation. An old brick apartment building loomed above him, ten stories tall, perched on the highest hill's summit. "This'll do."

The glass doors defining the front foyer shattered long ago. Inside, semi-circular patches blackened the concrete walls where people had lit fires. It smelt of urine and stale ash. He scaled the fire escape steps. Upon reaching the roof, he set up a carbon-fiber tripod and connected ultra-high powered digital binoculars. A small pad controlled the lens, allowing him to zoom, pan, and record.

In the ten-inch pad's screen, he saw thousands of ramshackle carts pour into a bottleneck at the main gate. Dirty scraps of domestication filled their rickety wagons. Pots and pans, worn out clothes, threadbare blankets, all pressed into insufficient spaces without time or care.

They didn't act as a herd. Cocooned, they pulled or pushed their belongings in isolation. Other humans reduced to obstacles, like a stone in their shoes or the hill they climbed.

The crowd filled with men and women, but few children.

A large contingent guarded the gate. They permitted one in a hundred to exit. After binding their hands with cable ties, they marched the remainder through side streets.

Witnesses dropped their carts where they stood and walked off. At first, they stepped out, as if trying to remain unnoticed. A casual departure rather than an unrestrained flee. But when panic erupted behind, they sprinted.

Hysteria flowed up the line. The queue's front melted as the refugees retreated at speed. Half the guards broke off to pursue their escapees. A faint engine sound, throttled hard, drew Hussein's attention to the procession's rear. From the streets feeding the boulevard, he spotted vehicles roar to life and race to contain the column.

A wave of people abandoned their few remaining possessions, trading everything they owned without pause for speed. The human tide transformed into a panicked herd.

Armed men in cars skidded to a halt ahead of the fleeing crowd, all doors flung open, and automatic assault rifle fire followed immediately. The street echoed with cracks and thuds, intertwined with screams. A few dropped to the ground dead; the guards herded the rest into a big bait ball. The predators circled, hooting and hollering.

To stay was pointless, so he packed the gear and returned.

After catching his breath, he boarded the vehicle and faced his crew. "The gate isn't an option. Carl's thugs are arresting everyone. There's no choice. We'll drive east. It's an obvious and dangerous plan, escape via an eastern airstrip. If we find aircraft, we'll find guards. It's a risk."

"The bus draws too much attention. Out east its only tractors," Jason said.

"Yes, it exposes us. But less than extending our stay. We'll have to weave a path through road blocks." Hussein faced his men, and each voted with a nod. Finally, he turned to Katharine.

"Yes." Her expression grim but determined.

Their attempted escape followed a pattern that repeated itself endlessly. Hussein would scout ahead from the highest available vantage and identify a way forward. He'd race back to the bus. Then they'd drive to the next safe point and repeat the cycle.

Late in the night, he failed to spot a pack of Carl's thugs sequestered in an old saloon, one of the few that actually sold alcohol. Three men stood outside pissing on the road when their minibus's headlights illuminated them. They lifted rifles slung on their shoulders and opened fire, dicks to the wind, still midstream.

The sound of bullets ricocheted through the cabin. Hussein jammed his heel to the brake, which offered spongy resistance. Simultaneously, he pulled hard right, aiming for a narrow cross street. The back drifted and shuddered. The outside wheels lost contact. A telegraph pole loomed ahead. With barely two seconds to impact, he scrubbed speed by slewing the bus harder into the turn. It swerved, tilted, but before it could flip, it slammed the thick steel post. Steam and broken glass followed.

The men didn't pause; kits already in hand, they exited in a smooth line and immediately sought cover. Still in the cabin, Hussein grabbed Jason. With a head tilt towards Katharine, he assigned him to protect her.

Before Hussein stepped on the pavement, his team had already dropped the three soldiers.

The saloon door flung open, and an arc of light spilled out onto the road. Shadows and gunfire followed behind. Inside the bar, two human silhouettes fell, immediately replaced by more. While one of Hussein's men ensured bullets greeted any attempted escape, the remainder hooked around the alleys. They split in a pincer movement and threw grenades through the windows.

A quick succession of explosions ripped through the saloon. Glass and timber window frames shredded to shrapnel. A flaming dust cloud followed, pushed with speed out every gap. The brick building appeared to bulge briefly with the pressure. The blast instantly killed the saloon's occupants.

From start to finish, Hussein's team annihilated the enemy in thirty seconds.

The fire grew inside the saloon. Through the broken windows, he saw flames climb the walls. A shimmering curtain of luminescent orange threw a flickering light across the street, illuminating the road in long, soft golden streaks.

A body hung from a bent streetlight, a swinging form, backlit by the blaze. Presumably the pub keeper's corpse, murdered by Carl's goons.

With the danger eliminated, Hussein whistled in Jason's direction, beckoning him to return. The burly soldier appeared from the shadows, leading Katharine gently towards him. When she arrived, he briefly shone the torch on her face. Ashen white, drawn and hollow, her bottom lip trembled. The picture of a wild animal in a headlight. He turned off the light and called the remaining team.

When they gathered around him, he said, "That's almost it for today. Two hours walk. Then we'll rest."

"Can't we take the bus?" Katharine asked.

Hussein glanced at the wreck. The impact caved its radiator, and coolant dripped from the honeycombed front end. A large puddle underneath. The hood bent and twisted into a _V_ shape, revealing the engine, which rested halfway through the firewall. The remaining front end hugged the telegraph pole. He flicked his flashlight over it, leaned in close to Katharine, and whispered, "It's kaput."

"Oh."

"It's been tough, but we'll be safe soon."

She nodded.

"We must push on. Are you up for it?"

"Yes."

He smiled and led her away from the carnage while his team rummaged through the dead guards' gear for usable ammo. After they finished, they pushed on. The soldiers formed a loose _V_ pattern and scanned for danger in a 180 degree arc. Hussein followed fifty yards behind, walking beside Katharine.

For some time they walked in silence. When her mood didn't improve, he reached out, like a brother to a sister, his arm around her. He squeezed her shoulder and told her everything would be okay.

Her head lifted and she said "yes" earnestly. But a moment later, even in the darkness, he felt her optimism drain.

"There's been too much death," Katharine said, and then became quiet.

# Chapter 40 – Know Your Enemy

May 24, 2057, 2:36 a.m. – Sagaponack Southampton, New York

"What the hell are you doing disturbing me at this hour!" Carl roared at Schneider from his luxuriously appointed king bed.

Carl grunted as he attempted to lift the heft of his body, his belly spilling from his silk gown as he sat upright.

Three naked women scooted over satin sheets and huddled against the wall. One snatched at the fabric, which they fought over in a pointless attempt to keep their modesty.

While they tussled, the Chief of Staff, Schneider, apologized. Carl huffed as he tried to regain the energy spent maneuvering upright. The mattress bowed under his backside. With his feet planted flat on plush red carpet, and a hand gripping the ornately carved bedhead, he craned his fat neck back to observe his harem, who stood on the bed's opposite side. The strain showed in his expression, and he couldn't turn far enough. He quit and told them to piss off. They ran past Schneider and exited the room, one arm over their pert breasts, the other covering their front.

When the door shut, Carl patted the bed twice, beckoning Schneider. "You know, Schneider, Strat women are programed to want you. It means nothing. Ahhh, but fillies like these, real ones; well they're with me because I'm powerful." The thought lingered as if he savored the smell of an expensive wine. But the moment disappeared, and he stared at where they exited and said with bitterness, "They wouldn't even spit on me otherwise."

He glared at Schneider and grumbled, "What the fuck do you want? It better be good."

"There's been a disturbance... It's hard to explain... You need to see it," Schneider stammered, his hands wrung nervously.

"See what?"

"The lights."

"Lights? You're telling me about lights?"

Schneider paused and then repeated, "Sir, you must look."

"Okay, okay."

Carl leaned over to ring a buzzer. Moments later, his butler arrived.

"I need to get dressed."

"But you can—" Schneider said.

"Piss off and let me get my pants on."

The butler swiveled for the door, but Carl waved his hand, motioning him back. "Not you."

After almost half an hour, Carl emerged, clothed in an immaculately tailored suit, with a fresh white shirt that did a wonderful job of turning his obesity from slovenliness into an imposing presence. He wouldn't show himself in public in anything less than his best attire.

"Let's see what the fuss is about," Carl grumbled.

Schneider led his master outside. As soon as the massive mansion's front doors swung open, Carl understood the commotion. Laser lights littered the sky, stretching vertically to the heavens. Even in the hazy pre-dawn, they shone bright in vivid colors. Carl looked at Schneider, his fat face lined with befuddled creases. Schneider shrugged his shoulders in response.

"How long have they been on?" Carl bellowed.

Schneider wrung his hands and blathered bureaucratic speak, empty meaning hidden in a maze of abstract words.

Carl sensed Schneider's nervousness. Another time he'd have enjoyed the display. At this moment, however, he understood survival trumped ego. After listening to Schneider's poor attempts to answer the question, he became impatient and cut Schneider off.

"Take me to the nearest one." Deep creases lined Carl's fat forehead.

The relief showed on Schneider's face, and he whistled over Carl's chauffeur and security team and briefed them on the mission.

The motorcade covered the circular driveway. Car doors slammed, engines started, and the column peeled away, Carl's vehicle in the middle.

It took twenty minutes to reach the first light in the thinly populated town he'd made his residence. A smooth ride driven at speed. The Transportation Authority gave the roads he regularly traveled special attention.

When they drew closer to the lights, the path deteriorated, and the vehicles slowed. The medium-density suburb, formerly occupied by the elite, appeared in the valley as they rounded the hill's crest. Faded glory written in a strange mixture of minimalist architecture and crass mansions.

Carl bashed the roof to signal the limousine driver to stop. Once parked, he exited without waiting for his chauffeur to open his door. He surveyed the lights, shook his head, and muttered something indecipherable.

He glared at his Security Chief and pointed to the house across the road. "Bring me the person flashing that light."

Minutes later a quivering young man was frog-marched to Carl, who took one look at him, drank in his fear with intoxicating delight, and asked, "What are you doing, boy?"

The man's eyes darted feverishly. He stammered nonsense and then stopped. After hesitation, a soldier slung a baton into his calf muscle. The man wet himself and fell to his knees.

Carl repeated, "Why did you flash that light?"

"You told me to," the young man murmured, head still bowed.

"Don't be smart!" the soldier snarled and bludgeoned his lower back.

The man fought his tears as he gazed to Carl. "It's true. You told me to do this. On the Strat. You said flick the light in a pattern, long, short, short, short. You said stay in rhythm with the nearby lights. I must keep going until you said stop, or you'd execute me." The young man bawled. Between sobs, he begged for his life.

The soldier released him and told Carl, "Sir, he's mad, sir."

Below them, their captive quivered on his knees. Carl's gaze moved from the man to the soldier. Eyes drawn to a squint, he peered at the other lights and surveyed them as if the act itself would produce an explanation. Finally, he turned to his Security Chief. "He isn't alone. Drive a mile. Get another."

"What about him?" the soldier asked while pointing at the sobbing man.

"Shoot him."

The next person Carl's thugs dragged down offered the same story, only their instruction was, "short, long, short."

Carl punched his car's side, spun to Schneider and shouted, "This is Katharine."

"Katharine?"

"Yes, you imbecile. Who else has the resources and brains? Who? Why haven't you useless pricks found that traitor yet?" He whirled to his Security Chief and screamed, "Find her. Find her. Find her!" All the while, he thumped his car's roof. His fat fist's blows dented the thin metal.

Everyone, except for his personal bodyguard, retreated towards their respective cars. When he stopped, he snarled at Schneider, "Come back here, coward."

The tantrum dislodged his comb-over, which he patted in place. With his hair fixed, he grasped his jacket's sides and pulled it down to smooth the ruffles caused where his suit rode his podge. "I want everyone, and I mean everyone, at Government House. Katharine is planning something big. We must expose her treachery."

It took a minute for him to recover from his outburst. After he calmed, the light recaptured his attention. A sour expression developed as his eyes skipped the lights. He asked Schneider, "Where are they getting the lasers?"

Schneider shrugged. One of Carl's security detail, an older man in his mid-fifties, cleared his throat, straightened himself, and said, "They were a popular survivalist item in the late forties. Used for line-of-sight communications."

"Wackos," Carl snorted, "Enough. We need to go now."

Schneider relayed his master's instructions, and the motorcade departed for Government House.

By 6:30 a.m., all the senior bureaucrats, civil and military, assembled in the general hall. Carl entered last. As he walked through the auditorium, a path cleared as if he was royalty. At the podium, he stood silent for a full minute. Whispers vanished to nothing, and they focused on Carl.

He started loud. "Let me make this simple. If you bring me Katharine, dead or alive, I'll make you my deputy."

The hushed audience became animated. Low rumbles rippled across the grand hall. They soon grew in volume. He allowed them to contemplate the offer briefly before banging the table for their attention.

"That's not all. That's not all!" He adjusted his comb-over and continued. "The person who brings me Katharine can also execute anyone they desire. Just one individual. Now get Katharine before your enemy gets you. Go!"

# Chapter 41 – Puzzle

May 24, 2057, 3:09 a.m. – Rural district, New York

Brenna stared at the lasers for ten minutes, searching for clues. None appeared. In other circumstances, she'd have devoted time to the puzzle. But its meaning worried her, even though it remained a mystery. She sensed danger waited for them and that the puzzle had somehow increased the risk. Escape's urgency increased. Just as she decided to quit, the boy tugged at her sleeve and asked, "See, they're all clumped. Why?"

She nearly responded 'I don't know,' until she noticed the pattern. Each cluster pulsed together, and each followed a different sequence.

"Wait here," she said.

A second ago, it was a complete enigma. Now, a crack appeared in the riddle, and the possibility she'd solve it instantly transformed her outlook from fear to curiosity.

She ran down the steps and rummaged through every kitchen cupboard until she found her quarry, a pencil and paper. Tools in hand, she raced up the stairs, patted the boy's head, and recorded the pulses.

"It's Morse. I think it's Morse code."

"What's Morse?"

"It's writing, with dots and dashes. Now, I need you to be quiet while I figure it out. Can you do that for me?"

The boy nodded.

Brenna transcribed the code. Once certain she'd captured everything, she retreated with him to the basement, where they could work safely. She wrote each letter in large print, leaving an inch between them. Next, she folded and ripped the paper into squares and laid them on the floor.

He sat beside her, a frown creased by curiosity.

"Is this a puzzle?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Can I help?"

"Can you read?"

The boy shook his head.

"That's okay. Sit with me."

She shuffled the papers, grouping likely vowels and consonants. On the twentieth attempt, she scattered them in frustration. Some flipped over, and the blank tiles gave her an idea. Perhaps she needed to examine the puzzle from a new angle. Rather than decipher the code, she focused on the probable target audience.

After she righted the squares, she retrieved all the letters for her name, BRENA. There was only one N. Realization struck; she only scribed each unique character once.

A chill descended her spine. The message was for her. Her head lifted and she shared her quizzical expression with the boy. Perhaps it was Katharine. Once again, she rearranged the tiles, this time assuming they could be reused. She spelled BRENA PLUG ST. She grabbed the pencil and scribbled an additional N, R, A, and T, tore them into tiles, and placed them in line:

BRENNA PLUG STRAT.

Momentarily frozen, she stared at the phrase.

"I think someone is trying to communicate with me on the Strat!"

The boy smiled.

"You never told me your name."

"It's Marcus!"

"Good to meet you, Marcus. I'm Brenna."

Brenna extended her hand to shake with Marcus, who replied with a cheeky smile and exclaimed, "I know!"

"How old are you, Marcus? Ten?"

Marcus beamed. "Seven!"

"Well, you're a big boy for seven."

Marcus puffed up and laughed.

"Listen. I must work for a while. You need to stay here."

He nodded.

Backpack in grip, she ran downstairs to the basement they'd woken from recently. After shutting the door, she rifled through the bag and retrieved her StratSuit and a battery. Before donning the suit, she checked the power and satellite connections. It worked. She kicked off her shoes, slid from her jeans, unbuttoned her shirt and let it all drop to the ground. With only her bra and underwear remaining, she slipped into the StratSuit.

Before she flicked the switch that'd integrate her consciousness with the Stratosphere, she paused. Everything pointed towards a trap. Plugging into the Strat carried an opportunity cost. The airstrip lay just beyond grasp, only a short journey. Chances fell in favor of it being unoccupied. It'd only take three hours to reach the airport. Once they took off, they'd leave this nightmare behind forever.

Logic dictated that she should forget the message. Yet duty bound her. She must help Katharine. Besides, a small corner of her mind considered the puzzle irresistible.

The moment the suit connected, her head reeled. Most people didn't suffer side-effects, but she wasn't so fortunate. Once her brain cleared, she examined the house. Satellites streamed live data to the Strat, updating the external environment in real time. In contrast, buildings' internal features weren't updated for technical and social reasons. The main issue was privacy. Consequently, owners could decorate their building's inside as they wished.

This owner hadn't bothered to redesign their house. Gray with no textures or detail, the sight made Brenna's eyes hurt, so she exited.

"What to do now?"

Every minute spent in the Strat increased the risk of detection. However, people weren't searching for her. Besides, she was a stranger in a disinterested world. Serendipity was her only enemy.

Trouble might arise if a random citizen flew past and witnessed her exit the house. The pogrom's blood hadn't dried, so if she was discovered leaving the area, it'd arouse suspicion. For a moment, worry almost led her to unplug. It'd been the most dangerous days of her life, and with Marcus to consider, the risk had become too great.

Then she realized no one would find her. Like a circle, her thoughts completed a loop, and on the second lap, she remembered Katharine and her responsibility to help. They were safe here. But that was the problem. With safety came no change. Consequently, she decided to fly to the city. The puzzle's solution didn't lie in this backwater rural district.

Before she could leave the building, a young woman miraculously appeared in front of her. Startled, Brenna jumped and released a spontaneous scream followed by cursing. The moment the words departed her mouth, her face flushed red. To her, profanity was a lazy and unproductive way to communicate an emotional response.

"Finally!" the young woman exclaimed, and then huffed, as if Brenna had failed to complete an expected task.

"What do you want?" Brenna asked cautiously.

"I set up the lights, to get you on the Strat. I've been trying for ages to catch you. It's been exhausting. I kept getting your StratBot."

"Who are you?" Brenna shrugged and raised her open palms in the air.

"Nancy."

"I don't mean your name. Who are you?"

"I'm from Allston. Logan's boy has gone missing, and we need Katharine's help to find her boy."

"Logan? I don't understand. How did you locate me?"

"I saw you at the lecture, remember?" Nancy replied.

The young woman appeared familiar, but Brenna couldn't place the face.

When Brenna didn't respond, Nancy continued, "If I've met someone, I can teleport to them in the Strat."

"You're not making any sense."

"We don't have time for this, I can explain later. Okay, listen. You know Logan, right?"

Brenna nodded. "Yes, of course I do."

"Well, a man called Trevor has kidnapped her son. He's heading to Galveston Island, to do something with the big computers you've got there."

Brenna's eyes narrowed, and her hands moved to her hips. "Look here. I'm not going anywhere until you explain everything."

Nancy walked Brenna quickly through the whole account, during which Brenna sat in shock. This girl had information she couldn't have known, not unless Logan told her. Also, Brenna never trusted that snake Trevor. However incredulous, the facts fit. The Strat servers were failing, and that explained why Katharine turned to someone like Trevor. The story defied fabrication. So she decided to trust Nancy.

As Brenna considered the boy under her care, and how desperate Logan would be to save her son, she resolved to help.

Brenna said, "We can fly to Galveston by jet. We'll land at Boston Airport in eight hours. Maybe seven or ten hours. Can you get there in seven hours?"

"Yes. Sure."

"I need to pick up Katharine first. That code you gave me accesses a multichannel com that allows her to communicate with 'sub-contractors.' It's not secure, but it's safer than the Strat. That's why she uses it, and that's how I'll reach her."

"Good. We're all set then?" asked Nancy.

"Yes."

Brenna disconnected and shed her StratSuit. She shoved her legs into her camo trousers and lifted them over her hips with a jump. Shirt in tow, she dashed up the stairs, dressing as she moved. On reaching the second story she'd finished buttoning her top. She paused for a moment to watch Marcus play with the toy cars she'd unearthed from a child's bedroom last night. It made her smile.

After clearing her throat she said, "I've found my friend! We're going somewhere much better. Only three or so hours walk now. Then we'll fly on a plane. Have you ever been on one?"

His head shook 'no.'

"Well, you're in for a treat. It's very exciting. Time to pack, we're leaving." To highlight the point, she clapped her hands twice.

Marcus helped Brenna push clothes, water, and food into their backpacks.

While waiting for sunrise they ate breakfast, canned baked beans and dill pickles. Every bite he took from the pickle caused Marcus to wince, and Brenna to laugh.

The sky lit well before the sun rose, enough to depart safely. Once again, she tied a blindfold over his eyes and weaved through the corpses scattered along the main road. She removed the blindfold after death's stench blew behind them.

The light show remained visible even in the aura that preceded sunrise. Like faded crayon drawn against a translucent brown sky. The glow of distant fires dotted the horizon. To their rear, a broad fire front burned food crops to ashes.

She glanced back and muttered, "They can all starve, animals..."

When Marcus imitated her gaze, she realized she might scare him and added, "Oh it's nothing. I'm just being silly. Hey, don't you think that cloud looks like a potato?"

"No, it looks like a poo!" He laughed at his daring rudeness.

She tried to remain serious. "Now, Marcus, we can't be vulgar." After she finished her admonishment she snorted involuntarily, and they both chuckled.

Conscious that life was most dangerous at the beginning and end of social upheaval, she welcomed any distraction. For a while, at least, playing 'name the clouds' served that purpose.

# Chapter 42 – Eastern Lights

May 24, 2057, Eastern New York

Katherine and her team abandoned the wrecked bus and pushed into the shrub and backroads. After endless twisted paths, bush morphed to a decayed urban landscape, which disappeared again into vegetation. Eventually the cycle broke, and the night sky opened to meadows. A red glow hovered on the horizon to their left. The smell of ashes blew towards them. When their eyes could only see grain and remote fires, they continued until, exhausted, Hussein called them to stop and announced he'd take first watch. Everyone dropped their bags to the ground, fell, and laid their heads upon the lumpy pillows.

For the past three days, they lurched from one precarious situation to another. Danger nagged them every step. At most, they slept four hours in eighty. Adrenaline fueled their advance. But now, their bodies quit.

Hussein decided to let his replacement sleep through his shift. So he paced a slow walk, an endless trudge around an imaginary perimeter, to keep himself awake. If he sat, exhaustion and tedium would combine forces and render him unconscious.

Long boredom broke when the laser light show began. It shocked and mystified him. At first, he left everyone to snore. With at least five hours to the closest eastern airport, they needed more rest.

The colored columns started gradually, one here, one there. On the possibility it was code, he recorded what he saw. As the production progressed, clusters became thick pillars that pulsed in synchronicity. The biggest question may have been 'what did it mean?' but for Hussein, the most intriguing question demanded attention. How was it organized?

An individual must operate each one. How could anyone make everyone comply? Carl must be behind this, and Katharine must be the target. But why would Carl believe such a clumsy ambush could succeed? And how is this a trap?

The puzzle only revealed a confused riddle, so he dug his pad from his backpack and recorded what he observed. Satisfied he captured all the code, he looked to his notes:

ABEGLNPURST

The gibberish that confronted him evoked no curiosity. Too exhausted to try, he concluded it was bad news, whatever the message meant. Reluctantly, he decided it prudent to wake everyone.

Katharine rubbed her eyes, stretched, whined about being tired, and then tried to negotiate more sleep. When all this failed and she was fully alert, she glanced at the sky and then the letters Hussein showed her. "Someone is telling Brenna to plug into the Strat."

He looked at her quizzically, to which she responded, "You know Brenna, she's my father's protégé."

As he nodded, his eyebrows knitted together, reflecting mental strain. For a moment, he fumbled through the paper on which he recorded the code. Still confused, he folded and pushed it into his shirt pocket. "What do we do?"

"My hat goes off to Carl for making such a pretty trap. But we won't oblige him. Let's keep going. I'll try to move faster today," Katharine said.

Hussein agreed, and they packed their gear and headed towards the airfield. It was surreal, with the lasers illuminating the sky with pulsing lights in every direction. They thinned over the rural areas, but they didn't disappear completely.

After half an hour, Katharine asked to stop. Hussein worried about her. As highly trained soldiers, they learned to endure the emotional and physical stress. But she was an old civilian. If he bordered on collapse, she must be close to a nervous breakdown. But they couldn't risk stopping.

"Do you have strong pain killers?" he said, pointing to her ever-present medical bag.

"Of course." She grinned and held it aloft.

They waited ten minutes, to allow the drugs to take effect. Color returned to her face, and she rose and pointed at the closest light columns. "Let's stay clear. Although I'd love to find out what's going on, I value our lives more than my curiosity."

"Absolutely. I agree."

Barely half an hour passed when Katharine's coms device rang. Inside her bag were two units. One was for communicating exclusively with Grant via hardwired encryption. The other was less secure, but it allowed her to connect with whomever she shared the key. Greater encryption decreased the chance it'd be reverse engineered to track her position. Given the paucity of talent, the likelihood of a hacker attack was slight. However, there was little point tempting risk. So she used the second device intermittently to talk with Trevor and other unsavory characters that power demanded she use occasionally, switching it off between missions. Both devices had the same ring tone.

Everyone halted and faced Katharine. She looked to Hussein. Color drained from him. "Answer it."

She fumbled through her trouser pockets. Fiddly things, the size of a thumbnail. When she found it, her face sagged. She said with a slight wobble in her voice, "Don't worry, it's not Grant. Probably some lowlife I hired."

"I don't believe in coincidences," Hussein said.

Katharine nodded and answered. Her response seemed silly under the circumstances. But with little else to say, she said, "Hello?"

As Hussein watched them speak, he noticed Katharine's expression change from caution to excitement. After she finished she ran to him, grabbed his cheeks with both hands, and kissed his lips. Then she yelled, "Yes!"

The others sniggered while Hussein turned bright red.

"Don't worry. I won't ask you to marry me."

The soldiers laughed, and when they calmed, she explained the situation. Finally, she said, "I think we'll make it!"

"Yes, we will. But we must push harder to reach the jets in time. Are you up to it?" Hussein said. But it was more than being late that worried him. Experience taught him that death always saves its best for the mission's last minutes.

"If my bones and muscles can forget pain."

"Have you got something even stronger in that bag?"

"Yes."

"You have a whole pharmacy shop there," Hussein joked.

"Every drug in the alphabet."

Struck by a sudden epiphany, he reached for his shirt pocket, removed the paper containing the code, and laughed.

While he passed Katharine a canteen of water to wash down the drugs, the other soldiers relieved her of everything she'd otherwise carry. She thanked them and followed their hastened pace.

# Chapter 43 – Predator

May 24, 2057, 7:00 a.m. – New York

At the end of Carl's short address, everyone jostled to exit the building, grunting contempt at their opposite number as they physically pushed each other. Civility's mask resolutely discarded.

Carl exited through the hall's rear with Schneider in tow. As he moved towards the car park and the front entrance came into view, he laughed.

The bureaucrats bulged behind the bottleneck created by the narrow entry and the men's interlocking elbows and punches. Like a writhing animal, they seethed, cursed, and heaved. Grabs and pulls ejected a few random men down the steps. The first to find freedom stumbled before spilling onto the curb. He stood, dusted grit from his suit pants, straightened his tie, and gave a one-finger salute to those still wedged inside. The bottlenecked men swore at the expelled man, who smirked and ran for the parking lot.

Other men soon followed. The battle for the front door moved to the carpark. Three toppled to the ground, trampled to death on concrete pavement a yard from the building.

The first driver to hit the accelerator spurred his car through the mob. He slowed only enough to allow men to dive clear. The next two cars crashed. A fistfight ensued.

Carl laughed and turned to Schneider. "The fools have pushed pencils for so long they'd mistake chocolate for shit. Katharine will be out east. That's where I'd be, and that's where we're going. Meet me at Blackhill Park in half an hour. While you're calling in a chopper, I'll find better intel."

Schneider's face screwed in confusion.

"You don't get it, do you, fool?" Carl snorted.

Schneider's lips opened to speak, but nothing followed. His expression turned rigid and white.

"If one of those idiots finds Katharine, they might think they can kill me. Occasionally, I must remind them how useless they are. Unfortunately, I need to remind you far too often."

Schneider's mouth shut tight, and he gulped.

Carl's frown crept into a sly smile. "Tell the pilot to land at BlackHill Park. Say it's for you. When you're done, drive to the park. Can you manage that?"

Schneider reddened and then nodded.

***

Half an hour later, Carl's chauffeur drove up the thin dirt trail that led to Blackhill Park. Squat trees encroached on the path, scratching the car as it pushed its way forward. Rain had washed deep holes into the road. Carl bounced and bobbed with every pothole he hit; his fat undulated.

The dusty track opened to a one-acre clearing. Deer scattered, bounding for the bush. Ten seconds later, only tightly cropped grass and manure indicated their passing.

The chauffeur pulled the car to a stop, and Carl disembarked. He grunted at the driver, "Make room for Schneider." His chauffeur complied, parking farther up the field.

Carl huffed as he watched him trudge back. When he got halfway, Carl yelled, "Bring me a seat."

Minutes later, he returned with a folding canvas chair and placed it behind Carl.

"Did I say I'm sitting here? Did I?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. Where would you like to sit?"

"Use your brain. Where do you think I'd like to sit?"

The driver shrugged and gazed at the ground. "I don't know, sir."

"You're pretty stupid, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lucky you've got me then, hey?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll make your life easier. Put it here." Carl pointed his fat finger to his desired destination, and the chauffeur rushed the chair into position and then retreated, head lowered.

The air filled with Carl's heavy breathing, a rhythmic tune that occasionally bordered on snoring. Flab creased and folded over his collar as he craned back, trying to catch a car's sound. He huffed again before he finally blurted, "Where the fuck is that useless Schneider?"

"I don't know, sir."

"It was a rhetorical question, half-wit. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Smart-ass, hey..." The throaty rumble from an approaching vehicle broke Carl's line of thought. Dust rose, and the car emerged from the bush track. Schneider drove past and stopped beside Carl's car. He exited and approached Carl, somewhat red-faced.

"Where have you been? Did you even get the choppers?"

"Yes. Of course," Schneider snapped.

Carl's head moved back slightly, shocked by Schneider's petulance.

Schneider kept walking until he stood over Carl.

"They'll be here forty minutes."

"That long?" Carl roared.

"Yes."

"And pray tell, why?"

"There are only nine serviceable helicopters. I don't have the political authority to book one. If I said it was for you, they'd have complied. But you forbid me. So I traded what I had."

"Those ridiculous dogs?" Carl laughed.

Schneider's cheeks flushed crimson red, a hue that colonized his neck with gravity's speed. "Yes!" Spit sprayed from his mouth.

"You're living in the Dark Ages. Pets? You're an oddity. I did you a favor. Who on earth would buy those vermin anyway?"

"William," Schneider snapped.

"Ha! He hates you! He probably wants to eat them, or fuck them. Maybe both." Carl laughed.

Schneider's jaw clenched.

Carl said, "Back to business. A few dogs told me a group of professional soldiers are closing on the old Calverton Airfield. There's only one reason for them to be there, Katharine."

The three of them waited for twenty minutes, the silence occasionally broken by Carl's comments on Schneider's dogs.

Hidden behind the tree line, a thumping noise rose in pitch. It built in pressure. Rhythmic beats grew in decibels quickly enough to leave no doubt they approached at speed. "At last!" Carl bellowed.

Two Apache helicopters rose above the bush. Hunters, they appeared from nothing, thundering, -khaki metal. Sleek and bristling with cannons, they looked like their purpose, death delivered by air. They touched down in the clearing's center. The blades' turbulence tore debris and dust into swirling vortexes.

Carl turned to Schneider. "Two choppers?"

"The Bell was unavailable. It was the Apaches or nothing. They only have two seats."

"Don't you dare lecture me, Schneider! I know they're two seaters."

"Shall we board?"

"Yes." Carl fussed around, seemingly unclear of what to do. He motioned for his chauffeur to join him, who ran to his master.

As they walked towards the helicopters Carl said, "I'll need a hand."

The closest pilot dismounted and marched to them. After saluting Carl, he briefed him on how to enter the cockpit. Carl nodded, looking flustered. Before he grabbed the first rung, he turned to Schneider and snapped, "You should've got the Bell. I could've boarded that one easily."

Carl tried to hoist himself up. After much straining, he grunted for the others to help. The pilot, the chauffeur, and Schneider gathered below him. They pushed at his elbows without success.

"Stop pussyfooting around. Just push," Carl barked.

Six palms pressed into his backside. Carl groaned and sweated. At the precipice, he wobbled, until the three heaved at his feet and propelled him into the cockpit face first. The pilot scrambled into the rear seat while Schneider and the chauffeur hurried to the cockpit's opposite side. Together, they righted Carl.

After Carl caught his breath, the pilot instructed him to don his helmet. The pilot said, "This is an ancient bird, we need to take it gently."

Carl nodded and strapped himself in.

The chauffeur returned to the car while Schneider jogged to the other aircraft.

From across the field, Carl watched the second pilot and Schneider. The pair stood outside their helicopter, talking. Carl's forehead furrowed; he glared at them. From Carl's vista, it seemed only Schneider's mouth moved. A minute later, he stopped and extended his hand to the second pilot. For some moments, his offer hung unreciprocated. When they shook, it was longer than normal, with Schneider speaking the whole time. Just before they turned to board, Carl was sure he saw the pilot smile.

Carl asked his pilot, "How the fuck do I communicate with them?"

"Their helmets are on now, so they should be able to hear you," Carl's pilot replied.

"Schneider?" Carl yelled to his microphone.

"Yes."

"Are you two getting married or something?"

"Sorry. He's an old friend."

Annoyed, Carl said, "No more wasting time. Let's get this party started."

# Chapter 44 – Escape from New York

May 24, 2057, 7:05 a.m. – New York rural district

A mile from the airfield, Brenna asked Marcus to sit. Binoculars in hand, she surveyed the area for trouble. A line of hangers occupied the periphery. Corrugated iron, bent to a semicircle, with large sliding doors, five yards high. The wind stripped all but three to their metal skeletons, like ribs of a giant whale. Those that remained intact appeared empty from the distance.

Brenna's attention shifted to the two runways, crossed in an _X_ formation. One was unusable; craters dotted the tarmac, deep enough to swallow a wheel. The other was clear, except for a small truck that blocked the path. _Bugger!_

Brenna removed her backpack to rest her shoulders and dug into her pocket, retrieving the coms device. She called Katharine. "We're here, and alone. I must move a truck. Otherwise, everything's fine. How long until you get here?"

"Great news. We're close... Maybe two hours."

"Call if you're delayed."

"Will do. Good luck."

Fifteen minutes later, they reached the runway. The vehicle demanded immediate attention. A flat surface should've made it easy to roll. However, the wheels lost their rubber years ago. Worse, scaled rust suggested the bearings had frozen.

She jumped in the cabin. A gear stick sat on the driver's left. The discovery caused her to smile. Old meant simple, and perhaps easier to move. She lowered the handbrake and shifted the gearstick to neutral. The gears moved. _Double good._

When she tried to push the truck, the positive signs didn't add to much. It failed to budge, despite her best effort. She took Marcus with her, walked past the control tower to the hangers. Sweat ran down her forehead and back. The huts appeared to wave in the heat haze. When they reached the building's shadows, she released a relieved sigh. Not only was it cooler, but she saw the mob hadn't completely ransacked the warehouses. Most looters searched for consumables, such as food and clothing. Old wheel rims, chains, snatch rope, and iron bars weren't interesting.

Hands on hips, she surveyed the available materials. "This will do nicely." She loaded two trolleys with all they required, secured the cargo, and heaved the lot, strung out in a train, to the truck. Marcus pushed against the rear, grunting theatrically. When they reached their destination, she unloaded the gear and inverted a trolley, forming an upside down V. The peak formed where the handle bar joined the tray.

"I'm about to smash this. Cover your ears." In a fluid circular motion, she raised the sledgehammer above her head and then dropped it on the metal. The sound made her eardrums ring. Sparks flew as she kept belting the hammer into the steel. Bit by bit, it lowered until flattened, so that it could stack upside down on the other trolley without the handles digging into the ground.

She loaded the inverted trolley onto the other one and strapped them together. She then tipped the contraption on its side so as it wouldn't move while she belted the tires from their rims with a wedge and sledgehammer. Once she removed all the rubber, she righted her creation.

"Marcus, take this chain and wrap it around the tow bar."

"What's that?"

"It's the ball sticking out the truck's rear."

Determined, he heaved at the metal, which clinked as it rose and dropped, but failed to move forward. Embarrassment washed over Brenna as she realized she'd set an impossible task. "Sorry, sweetie. It's way too big. Let me carry it." The apology only doubled his efforts, so she walked to him, patted his head, and asked him to sort the various bolts they'd collected earlier by size.

The distraction succeeded. While Marcus focused on his job, Brenna gazed to the sky. Now that escape was imminent, urgency built. She didn't understand the worry until she reflected on the BQCs. Years of work snatched away, after they'd crossed the finish line. As she surveyed the wide horizon, empty and flat with only the hangers and huts to break the vista, she concluded superstition fed her fears, that somehow history would repeat itself, and cruelly snatch success at the last minute. As a woman of logic, she couldn't allow her behavior to be dictated by such a backward outlook.

Consequently, she relaxed and worked at a slower pace as she answered Marcus's endless questions. She needed two pulley blocks to move the vehicle. The trolley contraption formed one. The other block required a point anchored to the ground.

Like all airfields, an array of unique markers, signage, and lights littered the airstrip verge. She smashed the top off a vertical approach slope indicator and dropped two of the four metal wheel rims she retrieved from the workshop over the base of the now exposed tube. She repeated this process. The result was four wheels that spun freely on an anchored point. Last, she threaded rope through two pulleys and used the chain to connect the trolley to the truck's rear. This produced a system that multiplied her force four fold, almost ten times after factoring the iron bar's leverage to the equation.

The 'shopping trip' and rigging exercise took eighty minutes. Her watch indicated Katharine was due in an hour. The jets required the same time. Momentarily, she considered calling them. But she couldn't risk forcing them to circle in a holding pattern if the truck proved stubborn.

Like circling buzzards, the highflying aircraft would draw predators for miles. Also, they'd unnecessarily consume precious fuel. There was only one option,: clear the runway first.

With the elaborate leverage system threaded, she filled each tin a quarter with oil, placed them on the chocks. As she lay on her stomach, she slid them as close to the wheel rims as possible. Finally, she ripped an old shirt and dunked the strips in the black liquid to create wicks.

"Marcus, we'll move this with some basic physics and chemistry."

"How?"

"The fire heats the bearings' outer casings, which will crack the rust weld. The pulley is the cleverest thing. This invention made it possible to construct great monuments, like the pyramids."

"Piramoods?"

"Yes, ancient and huge. Built from stone to the sky." She marveled as she gazed to its imaginary pinnacle; her hands described its outline. He copied her, both admiring their pretend monument.

"A pulley allows you to convert movement into effort. I'll move that wheel a lot, and the truck will move a little."

Marcus smiled, though she doubted he understood.

"Do you want to light the fire?"

The question elicited definite understanding, evident in his enthusiastic "Yes!"

"Now be careful."

They both crawled underneath, and Brenna watched, lying beside Marcus, as he lit each of the four fires. When they finished, they shuffled out and sat ten yards off.

"The heat will take fifteen minutes to loosen the bearings. Then we can move the pulley."

Thin wisps of sooty black smoke rose from the flickering wicks. It lifted into the wheel arches, hugged the cabin's contours and blew away in the light breeze, and then faded into a general haze.

For quarter of an hour, they stared at the flames. Every so often she turned to watch Marcus, his expression fixed, mesmerized. She'd worried it might have revived memories. But it didn't, and he watched with benign curiosity.

When sure the bearings had heated sufficiently, she rose, dusted her pants, and jogged to the pulley block.

"Here goes nothing." She tied the iron bar to the final pulley wheel. On flex, the knot held. Satisfied, she stooped to ensure her energy would transfer efficiently into the lever. Like a wrestler's first moments in a fight, she psyched herself up, dug her feet into the grass, and pushed as hard as her muscles allowed.

The pulley blocks gradually converged, and the ropes' bowed slack lifted tight. Initially, the truck resisted. The sound of raw grinding metal shrieked. But then, as rust frozen wheel bearings parted company with the axle, the vehicle moved more easily, measured in inches towards the verge.

Marcus ran to join her. "It's working?"

"Yes," she grunted. Sweat poured from her forehead and traced her cheeks' contours. She forgot to breathe, and the effort turned her bright red. When her body reminded her of oxygen's necessity, she inhaled greedily. But she dare not stop pushing as she'd lose momentum. With her shoulder holding the pressure, she used her temporarily freed right hand to dig into her pocket to activate the distress beacon. It emitted three ping sounds, indicating successful transmission.

She gripped the iron bar with both hands and pushed, like an ancient mule, spinning a grindstone through a worn track. The rope wound around the pulley's outer wheel and drew the truck one yard for every four yards she retrieved. When it reached the edge, she heard an aircraft approach. It was too early for the jets to arrive. Besides, the sound had a helicopter's rhythmic reverberation.

She turned to Marcus and screamed, "Hide! Under the truck." He responded immediately.

She ran a step behind. When they reached cover, she pushed his head down, and the boy dropped to his knees and scrambled between the wheels. She followed and wriggled to the vehicle's front, so she could observe the aircraft while remaining hidden.

Ahead, she saw the four burning oil tins. An undeniable sign of their presence. It was too late to extinguish them, and she cursed herself in silence.

Two choppers thundered past them and swept over the airfield. She stuck her head out the side to watch them. Sleek and bristling with weapons, their thin outline almost vanished, like a paper turned to its edge. Whatever they were, their military pedigree was obvious.

After they'd covered a mile, they separated. Briefly, it seemed they'd lost interest. But as the air throbbed, it was clear they intended to return. Once again, they thundered over the airstrip. After they passed overhead, they scribed a thirty-degree _V_ pattern. When they were approximately three miles away and three miles apart, they ascended in sync, banked inwards, and dived. The sight made Brenna suddenly ill as she realized Katharine would be in that field, and therefore she was their prey. 

# Chapter 45 – Chopper Attack

May 24, 2057, 7:15 a.m. – New York rural district

After the choppers passed overhead, Hussein shouted, "Spread. No one closer than two hundred yards."

In a large open field, three miles from the airfield, there was no concealment or cover, and no escape. It seemed death already visited them. Only their hearts remained unaware of what their heads accepted.

"Make them work for it," Hussein yelled.

Katharine tugged at his shoulder. "The grass is long... Can't we hide?"

"They have infrared cameras. They're checking if we have support. You must run."

She jolted as his voice rose. Otherwise, she was unresponsive. It seemed the danger had passed, and with it the urgency. Besides, she didn't have the energy.

But Hussein's expression had changed. Like a dog considered friendly, but now baring its teeth, snarling and vicious. It scared her. And when he screamed at her to run, he looked as if he might strike her down if she disobeyed. Adrenaline rose, and she complied. She sprinted across the open field, away from her protectors, towards the airstrip. The long grass lashed at her knees and feet.

When she saw the helicopters glint against the sun and, a moment later, heard the pitch rise, she realized they were returning. Fear gave her the strength to sprint. The attack craft parted and climbed high. As they passed behind her, she halted and spun to see Hussein's men already fanned out in a wide arc. When the two choppers began their dive run, Hussein's men stopped and dropped to their knees. Half the crew tracked one aircraft, half the other. Assault rifles pulled to their chests, eyes to their weapons' sights.

***

High above them, Carl issued orders to his pilot. "That's Katharine, the one running for the airstrip. Take out the soldiers first. Then we'll return for her." The pilot acknowledged. The g-forces sucked them into the seats, and the horizon tipped relative to the windshield. As they flew a sweeping path to their prey's epicenter, bullets pinged and zipped, ricocheting off the heavily armored aircraft.

"They're shooting at us!"

"Don't worry about it," the pilot snapped.

Carl thumped the door. "Not good enough."

"Fuck off and let me do my job."

The wide arc formed by the men presented little challenge. The pilot descended on their center, and spun. A death curtain sprayed in an elegant semi-circle. All fell, in turn, in a swivel movement.

Carl's fear disappeared, and he puffed with pride. "Now that's what I'm talking about. I told you not to worry!" The pilot grunted, but Carl ignored him. "Hey, Schneider, did you see that?"

"Yes, boss."

When Carl instinctively looked towards his audience, he noticed they retreated skyward. "Where are you going, Schneider?" Five seconds later Carl repeated, "Schneider?" After hesitating, he asked his pilot, "Is this thing working?"

"Yes."

Green and gray metal faded to a silhouette.

"Tango, what's your intention?" Carl's pilot asked, his voice tense and clipped.

The chopper seemed to hang, suspended high in the atmosphere, and then fell as if dropped. The rate of descent leveled until, within moments, it was clear that Schneider accelerated in a straight line, for him.

"What the hell?" Carl's pilot climbed and spun to face the incoming risk.

Schneider's voice boomed through Carl's headphones. "Consider this your resignation."

A second later, 20mm cannon fire ripped through the fuselage. Alarms blared, lights flashed, and the cockpit shuddered. His pilot squeezed a short burst in return. The ordnance hit Schneider's fuel line. The Apache twisted, then erupted into a spectacular fireball, before it dropped from the sky. Thick black clouds trailed the spiraling debris.

Carl's pilot slumped forward, passed out from the large loss of blood. Carl squealed hysterically, crying as he snatched at the controls. "But I can't fly!" Tears flowed down his fat cheeks as he randomly hit buttons and switches. All the while, he wailed.

Mortally damaged, the bird swung in wild circles, spiraling towards the earth. Its occupant screamed the whole way, until it crashed into the trees a mile away.

Fire licked up from the floor. A rising heat that almost instantly became unbearable. Carl's bloody hand slapped the bulletproof glass and then slid, smearing thick blood down the windshield. The handprint sizzled, and he disappeared in the smoke. Twice the handle rattled; the door opened. Soot poured out, followed by a burning leg. A second later, an enormous explosion engulfed the dead bird.

***

Katharine looked back in horror. With the choppers destroyed, she sprinted for the boys. They'd all died, even Hussein.

She dropped to her knees beside him and cupped his cheeks. The sound of her coms device interrupted her. She reached in her pockets and activated it.

"Are you okay, Katharine?" A voice squawked out the micro speaker. The message repeated three times until, finally, Katharine answered. She knew it was Brenna.

"Yes. But everyone else is dead."

"I'm terribly sorry," Brenna said, and then paused before continuing. "The jets will be here soon, and they'll draw a lot of unwanted attention."

"Yes, you're right. I'm coming."

Words remained unspoken as she considered the man that no longer heard. Silently, she thanked him. He'd protected her for years. And now they were gone.

Her thoughts turned to Grant. In the constant sprint from danger, there wasn't space to grieve. But that moment it belted her. It seemed she'd been lonely forever. For decades, no one stood in her corner. When Grant arrived, she'd dropped her defenses.

It was irrational, but when she recalled her time with Grant, emotion overcame logic. In death, they'd abandoned her, and she became angry. She struck Hussein's chest, repeatedly. Then she sobbed, sprawled on the earth beside him.

When the breeze dried her tears, a sense of duty returned. She remembered Brenna and realized delay only risked more lives. So she wiped her eyes, kissed his forehead, and rose to jog for the airfield.

# Chapter 46 – Escape from Allston

May 24, 2057, 7:30 a.m. – Allston

The sight of Allston's North Gate made Logan's heart pound harder. When they escaped the town's outskirts, she'd be able to relax. Until then, her fear grew. Experience taught her that danger was at its sharpest on the edge of change. Escaping Waltham had scared her deeply. This was different, but the stakes were infinitely higher. If she didn't succeed, her son would die.

Logan and Gus were in the cart, with Nancy riding the lead horse. They stopped just short of the exit. Ahead, the road led away from Allston, through a tight gap defined by two twenty-foot high towers. A decade ago, Robert built them to narrow the entrance after a near successful northern invasion.

Logan helped Gus shuffle from the rear tray. Once upright, he called out to Lukka, "We're ready."

A seventeen-year-old boy's face appeared over the tower's rampart, peering down at them. He vanished, and the sound of boots on metal followed. Above them, a small rectangle of light showed as the trapdoor opened. The hatch clanked on the inside floor. A moment later, his whole body emerged. Hands and heels gripped to the steel ladder's outside rail, he descended at speed. A dust cloud bloomed on impact.

He turned towards the others and yelled to Gus, "You owe me one!"

"Of course," Gus said. In his free arm, he clutched hessian straps tied around a black box. It looked like an antique hatbox. Ragged edges revealed its cardboard construction. When he stopped, he held it high and gave it an exaggerated shake.

Lukka jogged to them sporting a wide grin. The box contained no secret to him. Without pausing to say hello, he grabbed it and ripped the top open. Inside, the silver foil vacuum-packed bags glinted.

"So you had more." Lukka laughed.

"Of course. Never lay all your cards on the table! Thanks. We mean it." Gus placed his hand on Lukka's shoulder. A bright blush bloomed on the boy's face. With a simple shared nod, they closed the matter and then focused on the task ahead.

Lukka slapped the wheel and pointed to the four-foot gap through which they needed to pass. "You won't fit it through there."

"Yes. We know. We'll tip it sideways and drag it out with the horses. Can you please help Logan and Nancy?" Gus said.

Lukka placed the box on the ground, and they set to work. Once they dragged the cart outside the gate, they tipped it upright again. Behind them, long stripes marked its passage, where sharp corners scraped the concrete path.

After inspecting the tray and wheels for damage, Gus announced, "All good."

In contrast to the narrow exit, the landscape ahead loomed wide and open. Barren hectares, flat and featureless, like a gloomy billiard table. On the periphery, windswept trees encroached on long abandoned urban buildings.

"Time to get you on board," Logan told Gus. He nodded, and they helped him up. He scootered on his backside to the cart's rear while Nancy re-attached the stallion to the harness. The mare would trot beside her.

Once they finished and were ready to depart, everyone thanked Lukka and bid him farewell. They watched him return to the tower to continue his duty. When he disappeared into the metal structure, the tray jolted and moved forward as Nancy's horse towed them.

Ahead lay one hundred yards of concrete bridge, a slab raised over solid arches. The river raced below. It swirled in brown eddies demarcated by white foam. Above, hooves clopped, marking a slow beat as the North Gate receded.

Logan and Gus sat facing backward, leaning against pillows stacked against the cart's rear board. They waved again at Lukka as he reached the tower's top.

Barely fifty yards cleared when a familiar voice boomed from inside Allston. "Where the hell are you lot going?"

Eyes dropped to the road leading between the towers. A small silhouette against the afternoon sun, the long barrel of a gun, pointed in their direction. The distance didn't hide Robert's tone or stance.

Logan swiveled to see Nancy had already un-holstered her rifle, her torso twisted towards the danger. The horse had shuffled a few degrees in response to her command, her expression gaunt and ashen white.

The man bellowed again. A shudder flowed down Logan's spine. She turned to Gus and watched him reach for his weapon, tucked between the tray wall and a duffle bag full of clothes. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.

"Stop!" the voice yelled. A terrible potential chain of events unfurled in Logan's mind. Her gaze lifted from Gus to Robert. Although he stood some distance off, his movements' purpose possessed the clarity of cold water. A man only lifts a rifle's stock to their cheek for one reason.

"What do you want?" Gus yelled.

"All of you. You're all abandoning your duties."

"We're not returning."

"Yes you are. There'll be a court martial."

From her periphery, Logan saw Gus ferret for the rifle. The arteries in her neck hammered. _Don't. Please don't_. At that moment, when the seconds froze, she begged him to wait. _He'll kill you before you touch the trigger._ With desperation, she tried to will away his intent. But his demeanor already hardened to resolve. An expression of inevitability. Despite her internal plea's volume, words never reached her lips. Only her eyes. Neither time nor adrenaline permitted anything else. Once again, she became a passenger to events, washed about by circumstances she couldn't control.

A pinging sound followed almost instantaneously by a loud crack. Logan jolted.

Robert shouted, "I'll shoot Nancy first, then Logan. You, I'll keep alive."

For the longest second nothing happened. She saw Gus's jaw clench. Action would surely follow. So she slid her hand onto his thigh, squeezed, and whispered, "Don't."

After he faced her, his demeanor softened. Angry determination replaced with worry. When every moment balanced on life and death and communication became all-important, Logan couldn't find the words she needed to say. She could only search his eyes. Bit by bit, she felt her influence wain as another bad choice threatened to replace the previous. Already, Gus's expression appeared to harden again.

She thought he'd reach for the rifle. Instead, he turned away from her and yelled to Robert, "We won't shoot. I'll return. The others will leave."

Tears welled in her eyes. "No."

"Everyone is coming back," Robert yelled.

"No. Just me. Logan must find her child."

"I said everyone. We're not negotiating."

"I'm getting out. I'm unarmed."

"Don't do this," Logan begged.

As she watched Gus shuffle forward, she realized her words hadn't penetrated. "Please don't."

Events unfolded like a nightmare in which no matter how hard you ran, you never advanced. Robert's body disappeared, eclipsed by Gus as he pushed himself between her and danger while he dragged himself to the cart's edge.

"If you shoot me, Nancy will drop you before you get off a second shot," Gus yelled.

As if to confirm, Logan twisted and glanced at Nancy, who had lined Robert up in her rifle's scope. The firepower didn't lessen Logan's fear. More guns gave Robert fewer choices.

A scraping sound returned her attention to Gus. In an awkward movement, he rolled over the rear. As his legs crashed to the ground, he managed to keep his body upright by locking his arms over the cart's backboard. She watched him straighten and searched his eyes before he'd spin to face Robert. "Gus, don't leave me."

Grim and determined, Gus said, "There's no other way. Your son comes first."

There was no arguing; he was right. But the logic didn't console her. She whimpered as Gus turned and hobbled towards Robert.

Robert yelled, "I swear, the next bullet will pierce Logan's heart if you step again."

"Pull that trigger and Nancy will kill you," Gus yelled.

"I'll take my chances."

"Why can't you let us go?"

"Let you go? The only thing saving us from savagery is discipline."

"But what you're doing is savage."

"Savage? Savage? I'm the only person holding this place together. Me!" Robert spat his words. "The town would crumble without me. I make all the tough decisions. I wear the burden. And you think you can leave? After all my sacrifices? Over my dead body!"

With one arm held high in an open palm, the other to his cane, Gus staggered ahead.

"We know you work hard. The residents owe their survival to you. Logan and Nancy will return shortly. I won't resist. I understand you must set an example. Set it with me. Let them go."

Gus dropped his hand, motioning for Robert to lower his weapon. Robert raised his head from the sights. The barrel drifted down a few degrees.

A breeze lifted leaves. They tumbled along the road between the men. The horses whinnied and snorted. Silence. Gus continued walking.

When the distance closed to thirty yards Gus said, "We can work this out, Robert."

Robert's hardened scowl returned. He stepped a few paces sideways to place Logan in his line-of-sight. Gus staggered parallel with Robert, trying to keep himself between Robert and Logan.

"Don't call me Robert. I am the boss. Not you, not anyone else. I am sick of this. Say goodbye to Logan. One, two..."

A crack rang from the tower. Thirty yards behind Robert, Lukka's rifle pointed at him. Like a toy soldier, Lukka remained frozen in his action pose.

The situation didn't immediately register with Logan. When she grasped the events, her attention shifted from Lukka back to Robert.

Robert staggered a step, fired a round that flew harmlessly into the distance, and then dropped to one knee. Steel clanked as it hit the road. Blackness spread from his blue shirt's center, radiating away from his heart. For a short time, he seemed suspended in disbelief, his head bowed to examine his wound. But it only held his attention briefly. After he clutched his ribs with his left hand and removed it to inspect his bloody palm, he reached for the stock. With purposeful movement, he raised his rifle. Slowly, he swung the weapon towards Gus. A final gunshot exploded.

Silence. Logan's chest heaved when she witnessed Gus's fall. After he hit his knees, he spun and faced her. Wide-mouthed, he seemed to gasp. A surreal feeling saturated everything. A dream within a dream. Yet, as her eyes had followed Gus's tumble, they caught sight of the barrel's end, and reality returned.

In her arms lay the weapon that had finished off Robert. She stared down the barrel and watched Robert fall facedown. No sound or movement ensued.

At some point, she'd grabbed the gun and shot Robert, but she couldn't remember. It didn't matter. She dropped it and scrambled out to run to Gus.

"Are you hurt?" Logan asked, her eyes puffed and glistening.

"I'm fine. You shocked me. That's all."

She fell to her knees, threw her arms around him, and squeezed him. A moment later she rose, straightened her top, and wiped her cheeks dry.

"I'll check on Lukka."

"Of course."

She ran to the tower. Ten yards away she stopped, her energy sapped. She gripped her side and waited for her strength to return. Above, she saw Lukka, frozen; his head showed above the wall, his gun still pointed at Robert.

The sound of Nancy's boots slapping on concrete echoed. When she reached Logan she said, "I can go up."

"Don't worry, I'll go." Logan scaled the ladder. Two rungs short of the top, her arm raised and banged the trapdoor. Briefly, Lukka remained unresponsive.

"I can't hold much longer. Let me in."

Footsteps on check plate steel sounded. The trap door swung open. Logan climbed up into the tower. In front of her, she didn't see a young man, but a scared little boy. She stepped to him and hugged him. A clank followed as his rifle slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. With his head on her shoulders, sobbing, he clung to her. She patted his back, her arms tight around him. Five minutes later, Lukka stopped crying.

As he sniffled, she asked, "Do you want to come with us?"

"You want me to?"

"Of course."

The offer hung unanswered as he shuffled his right boot, concentration fixed on its movements. The rounded sound of rubber grated on checked steel. Then his head rose. "No. This is my home."

She smiled, her expression gentle and warm. Like a mother, she stroked his hair and brushed his fringe from his eyes. "We'll return. I hope..." She gazed to Robert. "Let us deal with him. Don't tell anyone."

She drew his face away from Robert's corpse and fixed his gaze. "No one needs to know about this." He nodded. "We have to go now. Will you be okay?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. You saved our lives." With those words, she descended the ladder, a slow, wobbly decline. When her soles touched the ground, she asked Nancy to use her horse to tow Robert's body a mile away. She pointed to the forest's edge. "Animals will eat the evidence. We'll meet where the road cuts the woods," she said, pointing ten degrees farther to the right.

Plan set, the women walked for the cart, where Gus already boarded.

"Will Lukka be okay?" Gus asked when Logan reached hearing range.

"Yes. It shocked him. But he'll be okay."

As Nancy rode away to deal with the grizzly task of hiding Robert's body, Logan explained the plan to Gus. She mounted the stallion and headed to the cross roads where she agreed to meet Nancy.

At the forest's edge, she stopped, dismounted, and joined Gus. Despair gripped her heart, and for comfort, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"We'll find him," Gus said.

Logan smiled a sad, tight smile. Her eyes became watery. When she squeezed his hand for a second, it seemed he'd pull away. Then his expression softened to one she thought she'd never see again. Her neck stretched as she kissed his lips, touch light as a breeze.

# Chapter 47 – Injection

May 24, 2057, 8:47 a.m. – Calverton Airfield, New York

Katharine stopped when she reached the airstrip's verge. Her face twisted and contorted; her hands gripped her sides. She slowed, paced steps punctuated by wheezing. With only depleted and burnt out muscles to drive her forward, running ceased to be an option.

She caught sight of Brenna in the distance, jogging towards her energetically with a boy in tow. An emotional weight lifted off her chest, giving her renewed strength. She quickened her pace and shuffled in an awkward gait halfway between a limp and a run. When the gap finally closed, she hugged Brenna enthusiastically. Brenna's arms dangled by her side.

"God, it's good to see you. The world's insane," Katharine said.

"I know!"

"And the jets?"

"On their way as I speak." Brenna pointed behind them. Katharine followed Brenna's finger to an imaginary spot marked on a grubby sky. At first, her eyes couldn't locate the jet. Then it resolved to focus. A black dot that grew to a recognizable shape.

She laughed and then raised her hands to her mouth, trying to suppress the sound. A moment later tears replaced laughter. After she blew her nose, she apologized.

A shy boy stood beside Brenna.

"Who's this?" Katharine patted his head.

The boy withdrew behind Brenna.

"This is Marcus. He's been through a lot, and he's coming with us."

Katharine smiled at Marcus.

"This is Katharine," Brenna said. "She's our friend."

Brenna explained to Katharine why they needed to pick up Logan, Gus, and Nancy from Boston. As Brenna spoke, Katharine's face sagged.

"I knew Trevor was a risk. It's my fault. But you have to understand, I never thought he'd do something like this... Not this... I'm so sorry." Katharine choked up.

"I'm sure you didn't intend this. Anyway, if you want to apologize, talk to Logan, not me."

Katharine nodded.

"We must return to the airstrip. The jet will land soon," Brenna said.

They walked towards the runway. The approaching aircraft's engine roared. Its landing gear descended, and the nose flared slightly to reduce speed. Moments later it made a perfect three-point touch down. Rubber wheels screeched on the tarmac. The whining engines lowered in pitch as they slowed.

Katharine looked down to the boy, his face frozen in stunned amazement.

"I doubt he's ever seen a plane. Not this close." Brenna said as she beamed at Marcus. His gaze remained transfixed on the gleaming metal bird.

"Yes. We took much for granted. And now it's gone," Katharine said. Words uttered in passing appeared to affect Brenna greatly. She wondered if she'd triggered a bad memory.

As she watched sadness pass over Brenna, it reminded her of a vision lodged in her mind decades ago. Shortly after becoming PedCom's CEO, she agreed to join the board on a fishing charter. From above, the ocean seemed to descend forever, layers of shifting translucent aqua blue. Across the surface, a gently undulating mirror sparkled. The boat sliced the water, clean bow waves ahead and a wide white wake behind them. Her hair flickered as they pushed into the still dawn at ten knots. She smiled, and the men dropped their lures astern.

That morning, twenty-nine years ago, she could've been in paradise. The reel's screaming ratchet shattered the peace. Hoots and hollers followed, and the stocky man grabbed the rod. Like excited schoolboys, the men pressed around him and patted his back and offered advice as he played the fish. It fought for freedom, jumping and pulling hard. When he landed it, Katharine drew closer.

Fresh from the water, it writhed and shook. Electric green and yellow, with fluorescent blue spots that changed from different angles. Speechless, everyone gazed on it. Before them, the color drained, as if some magic spell broke. Within seconds, it became still, the muted silver of a gloomy sky. The men touched the animal with a pallbearer's dignity. But a moment later, the regret they held so reverently, washed away, and they cast out another lure in the boat's wake.

Brenna's expression reminded her of the dying fish.

But the sentimentality that grasped Katharine briefly, evaporated, and her focus returned to task.

They walked silently to the aircraft. The jet's steps descended, aluminum sparkling in the sunshine. Katharine let Brenna and the boy board first. With a deep breath, she took one final look around before climbing the stairs.

Once they were all inside, Brenna asked Katharine, "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

Brenna turned to the cockpit and said in a clipped tone, "Jet, what happened to the other jets?"

"They were ambushed. I escaped," Jet responded.

"Who are you talking to?" Marcus asked.

"The plane's a robot. Do you know what a robot is?" Marcus shook his head.

"I'll explain later. Alright?"

He nodded yes.

Brenna looked at a vague point towards the front. "Jet?"

"Yes, Brenna."

"Jet, what about the soldiers?"

"They were destroyed, along with the Jets they guarded."

"Oh..." Brenna paused before continuing. "Jet, do we have enough fuel to go home via Boston?"

"Yes."

"Jet, let's go to Boston."

"Please sit. We must leave immediately. Sensors indicate militia approaching."

"Jet, we're ready now."

The plane swiveled on the runway. "Hostiles confirmed. Two SAM battery radars detected eleven miles west. Infrared confirms ground forces closing. Approximately seventy soldiers three miles west."

The engines whined as they accelerated to full revolutions.

Katharine tapped her armrest nervously. "It must be Carl's men. There are only a few operational airstrips." She watched Brenna strap in Marcus. While the boy smiled, Brenna nodded, a barely hidden expression of fright betrayed by her wobbly command. "Jet, pause the updates."

"Confirmed."

The wings vibrated as Jet belted down the runway. Wheels raced over the pottered surface, which caused the cabin to jolt with each hole. Acceleration pushed its passengers hard into their seats. The Earth dropped away and disappeared rapidly below at a steep angle. Turbulence caused the aircraft to shudder. It bounced and rattled until finally, ten minutes later, it reached twenty thousand feet.

"Jet, please tell me when we're safe," asked Brenna.

"The SAMs failed to paint us, and we've escaped Infrared Missile range."

"Jet, so we're okay?" Brenna asked.

"Yes."

Brenna and Katharine both exhaled in a loud exaggerated fashion. The relief of escaping New York left Katharine in tears. When she composed herself, she leaned towards Brenna and said, "I'm so sorry. I don't think I've cried in over a decade. Now it seems I can't stop."

Brenna smiled in response.

"Is the lady okay?" Marcus asked.

"Yes, it's been a big day. She's just tired," Brenna replied.

Marcus plastered his head against the window and called out everything he saw, insisting Brenna look at every new discovery.

No sooner had they leveled off, than they descended again.

"Are we landing?" Marcus asked, his voice rising.

"Yes, but we'll take off again. So you'll get to fly longer."

The earth zoomed towards them. Below, the Boston airport grew larger in the windows until once again Jet made another flawless touch down. Marcus clapped spontaneously in response to the sound of rubber squealing as they braked.

Katharine was equally pleased, but for different reasons. "You can open the door now, Jet."

Brenna said, "Sorry, that won't work. Jet has a small BQC, it isn't very smart. To avoid the risk of it misunderstanding general conversations, it only responds to my voice, and only for sentences starting with 'Jet.' It doesn't log or respond to any other conversation."

Katharine nodded and smiled.

***

Gus scanned the sky, searching for movement. They'd arrived early, and the time spent waiting had worn on their nerves. He watched helplessly as Logan paced. When a distant roar first sounded, she jumped and then cried. From the haze it appeared, a dark smudge that grew in size until definition sharpened.

Logan spun to Gus. "Where will the plane stop? Are we on the right side? Should we cross over?"

"Wait until it lands."

Her arms flailed about as her tone became shriller. "Don't just sit there. We must be ready. And you move so slowly." Tears followed.

After she calmed a little, he staggered over to hug her. "We'll find him. Stay positive. It'll all fall apart if you become hysterical."

"Yes. I'm sorry." She nodded earnestly and wiped her swollen eyes.

"It's okay."

Behind them the jet neared, the noise loud enough to feel the engines' revolutions through his chest. "It's time." He turned to Nancy and watched her slap the horse's backside, instructing it to go home. The horse trundled off, on a path that'd lead it to Allston.

The aircraft touched down, slowed, and when it reached the runway's end, it spun to prepare for takeoff. A sleek fuselage, gloss white wrapped over a perfect tube. Behind, the sky and ground, a thousand shades between brown and gray, everything twisted and knurled, and long broken.

Nancy announced, "Okay, let's go!" Like three refugees, they straggled over the flat field towards the jet. Fifty yards away, the cockpit door opened and lowered to the tarmac, revealing the steps they'd use to board the plane. Brenna appeared, head ducking to clear the doorway. Outside, she bent forward stiffly and seemed to inspect her trousers' crease. She tugged at it and pulled the line to her leg's center. A moment later, she stood, returning to her rigid pose.

The women helped Gus up the stairs. Once he entered the aircraft, he saw Logan hug Brenna. Slowly, Brenna reciprocated with the uncertainty of a novice tightrope walker. She broke the embrace and introduced everyone to Katharine, who rose from the plane's rear and walked the aisle to greet them.

Katharine shook Nancy's hand vigorously. "Brenna told me about your abilities." She grabbed Nancy's shoulders and looked her up and down. "We've encountered these glitches before. Only rarely. But always someone with a disability. Somehow, occasionally, it blocks their ability to integrate with the Strat. But your situation is entirely unique."

Nancy frowned and opened her lips as if to speak, but before words left her mouth, Gus interrupted, "She used to be deaf."

"Ahh..." Katharine turned to Gus. "That explains things. A little, anyway. She examined Gus. "Why are you suffering this disease?"

"It's a genetic—"

"I know why you have it. The question is, why you haven't treated it?"

"It's difficult finding meds. Only some work for me."

"Rubbish!" Katharine said. As she rummaged through her bag she added, "I heard you came up with the idea for the light show. You're clearly a very ingenious man. You could've easily sourced meds."

When she found a small case containing a hypodermic needle she said "Aha," and held it like a prize. "Who knows if your problem is guilt or something even more stupid, but we need you in fully functioning order." She pushed Gus into a seat, grabbed his arm, and pulled it towards her. "Now this will work fast, and it'll hurt in ways you wouldn't believe." With her thumbnail pinched into the needle's cover, she flicked it off to reveal the shiny point, raised it to squirt out excess air, then plunged the syringe into his vein.

Events passed too rapidly to absorb the implications of her actions, or to protest. Almost immediately, the changes hit, as the self-replicating nanobots tore through his body. Everything appeared in slow motion. When he tried to move, his muscles didn't respond. All his senses sharpened. Momentarily paralyzed, all he could do was watch and listen.

Brenna announced, "Jet, take off." Engines wound to maximum speed, and the g-forces pulled him into the seat. As they ascended, he convulsed, and his face contorted. From the corner of his eye, he saw Logan fret.

"He's having a bad reaction."

"Don't worry. This is normal. In ten minutes, he'll be okay. I promise."

The agony defied description. It seemed his blood became molten lead; his heart pulsed waves of pain through his arteries. Every second it pounded harder, until he heard its reverberations in his skull. His lungs followed, tightening until he thought they'd collapse. Like he'd teleported to the bottom of a deep lake after he'd exhaled. Then a cold stabbing sensation cut through his head, behind his eyes and into his brain. Unbearable heat. He let fly with a guttural scream that filled the entire cabin.

Logan yelled at Katharine, "Do something."

"Just wait. Believe me, it'll all be worth it," Katharine said softly.

Within five minutes, his breathing slowed and heart rate decelerated. The previous bright red skin faded. Within ten minutes, he looked normal, as Katharine promised.

"Are you okay?" Logan asked.

Gus turned his head to her, extended his arm, and stretched his fingers. Only moments ago, his hands were almost useless tightly balled appendages. Now, he could move them at will. He continued to clench and open his fist, held aloft like oddities. He unlatched his seat belt and stood. His full six-foot frame unfurled. Previously hunched shoulders opened out, revealing a broad chest. Lastly, he smiled a wide effortless smile.

"Hell yes!"

# Chapter 48 – Radiation Signs

May 24, 2057, 3:18 p.m. – Galveston Island

Four days driving left Trevor exhausted. Keeping the boy happy proved to be hard work and provided little chance for rest. Yet, as he closed on his destination, all his resentment melted away. Now within a whisker of achieving his destiny, his heart threatened to rip from his chest. Despite sleep deprivation robbing him of quick thinking and reflexes, his mind raced over the possibilities fate might deliver.

Radiation warning signs littered the roads forty miles from Galveston's outskirts. As he drove past them, he considered the BQCs, the importance of security, and concluded they were fakes. It was a scare tactic. Trevor smiled. Such deception deserved respect.

The distance quickly dissipated until finally he reached the gateway to Galveston, the causeway. A long straight highway over oceanic waters led to the island itself. Here the BQCs waited to serve him. At the end, an unguarded gate lay open, inviting him to enter. To Trevor, the entry appeared like a staircase to heaven. He was its greatest angel, on return to his rightful place.

As he neared the finish line, demountable huts and warehouses dotted the landscape. An odd assortment, mismatched and ramshackle. _This must be it._

High above the buildings the unmistakable smoke stacks of an industrial printer continuously bellowed grimy clouds.

Crumbled fibro shacks gave way to gray brick sheds. As he drove farther, he passed steel aircraft hangers, the cheap semicircular metal variety, with tall doors that slid on huge rollers. Beyond, a clearing opened to reveal a runway. At the runway's edge sat an old man, parked on a collapsible chair.

_This must be the professor._ He didn't find it curious that his quarry sat alone, isolated, without purpose. Fate delivered the man he required on a seat. It invited no question.

Trevor pulled the jeep to a halt. Tires slewed as they bit the tarmac. A skid trailed twenty yards, stopped short of the professor. Burnt rubber wafted. The old man didn't flinch. As Trevor disembarked, the professor barely raised his head and asked, "How can I help you?"

Initially, Trevor remained unresponsive. Instead he stretched, first his arms out to the sky, then his legs as he leaned against the jeep and rocked on his calves. He surveyed the landscape randomly for five minutes. Finally, theatrically, he touched his toes before he spoke. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"No. Sorry."

"Well, I promise you won't make that mistake twice."

"I say again, what are you after?"

"You know what I want, old man. No more games."

"Games!" The professor laughed, slow at first, then heavy.

"Stop laughing!" There was no submission, so he repeated his demand. When this failed, he bloomed bright red. Without contemplation, he reached out and slapped the old man's face, hard.

The professor's head snapped sideways. Slowly, his hand rose to wipe blood that flowed freely from his mouth and lips. As he did so, his stare returned to Trevor.

The old man's stoicism surprised Trevor, and his chin lifted and his left eye twitched. For a moment he froze. Then he sprang back into aggression. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward in an exaggerated manner. "Not laughing now. Hey?"

The noise startled the boy, who woke and knelt on the passenger seat and cried. Trevor whirled towards him and roared, "Don't you dare start!" Like a setting sun, the child sunk, hands gripped to the lower window frame. Only his frightened eyes peered above the door, fixed on the professor.

Trevor watched as the old man shot the child a nod and a reassuring smile. But the blood had instantly drained from his face, and the old man appeared ash-white and fearful. At that moment, as he observed the professor's fear rise, he realized the boy would deliver him the BQCs.

"Wait... We can resolve this. What do you want?"

"Plug me into the BQC."

The professor sighed. "But of course."

"I'm destined to be a God. Fate delivered me here to you. I conquered insurmountable obstacles, kept my faith. Now I've arrived for my reward."

A slight red hue returned to the professor's face, an involuntary expression written in disbelief and disgust.

"How dare you judge me," Trevor thundered.

The professor lifted his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "I'm not. Please be calm. I'll do as you wish."

"Plug me in. When you finish, I'll spare you."

"The BQC is in that hanger." The professor pointed across the tarmac.

Trevor walked around the jeep and snatched the boy from the passenger's seat. The child hung like a sack of grain, curled under his arm. After a few steps, he dropped him. He staggered on landing. When he straightened, Trevor held his palm to his skull and shoved him, causing him to stumble forward.

Trevor said to the professor, "You first." The order failed to elicit an immediate response. He watched the professor's jaw clench as he stared at him. Slowly, the old man turned and led the way. After twenty yards, he glanced over his shoulder to the boy.

"Keep going, old man." Trevor shook his gun. Despite his command, the professor continued to glance back.

The boy had almost served his purpose, but his slow pace annoyed Trevor. So he pushed his pistol into the boy's neck. The boy staggered ahead, but with Trevor covering twice his distance every stride, he soon caught up.

The professor halted and spun. "Enough! It's unnecessary to scare him."

"I'll kill him if you don't do as I say. Now walk."

"No!"

"No? How dare you defy me!" Trevor turned bright red with anger.

"I'll obey you. Only because you're threatening the boy. My life means nothing anymore. But I can't trust you'll keep your word if you continue to terrorize the child."

"I will shoot him."

"If you insist on being cruel, it only proves you'll kill him regardless. Best to do it now, rather than torture us."

Trevor grabbed the boy by the shoulder, pulled him close, and pushed the gun's barrel against his head. The child immediately sobbed.

"I'll do it," Trevor yelled.

The professor remained silent. He shut his eyes.

Trevor screamed. For a full minute, he ranted and threatened. But in the end, he relinquished control of the immediate situation for his higher purpose. "Have it your way. But if you don't plug me in, he'll die."

The professor's eyes opened. "Okay, we have a deal."

The old man stood still. As Trevor passed him, he glanced back and saw he followed three paces behind. It didn't matter; he considered the old man too weak and slow to threaten him. So he pressed ahead.

After they entered the hanger, he turned to allow the professor to catchup.

"You're expecting something, when nothing will happen," the professor said.

"Don't attempt to trick me. I'm a brilliant programmer, mathematician, and engineer. If you try anything, I'll know, and I _will_ shoot the boy. Clear?"

The professor glanced to the boy. "I'll do exactly as you wish. You can watch me give the instructions."

The professor walked to a terminal, activated the screen holograph, and initiated the voice command systems. One by one he worked through the sequence of routines needed to interface a human with the BQC via a StratSuit. Once he issued the final order, the BQC responded, "BQC-Chairman ready to commence integration."

"There's a StratSuit in storage." He pointed to the metal cabinets lined against the rear wall.

Trevor walked to the shelving. While he pushed the boy, his eyes fixed the professor.

As he donned the suit, the Professor said, "Lie on this table when you're dressed. Magnetic scanners will capture the remaining information required to complete the transfer."

"You said this was pointless. Yet everything is ready for the job."

"I've taken many snapshots of brain patterns, my own included. But I've never attempted a dynamic download. From a process perspective, it's almost identical."

"Stop waffling and start." He reclined on the table. A robotic arm swung the magnetic scanners into position, where they'd circle to map Trevor's brain.

"The gun will interfere with the scanners. You need to put it down. You can trust me."

"Bullshit. It's nowhere near my head. I'm not a fool." He flicked his pistol at the professor. "Start the scanners now."

The professor issued verbal instructions to the BQC. The scanners hummed as they rotated slowly.

Trevor's attention returned to the boy. "Don't move."

The BQC itself sat behind Trevor. It was a spherical object held in a transparent aluminum shell. Inside, a chemical soup enveloped fiber optics that ran out from an opaque smaller sphere in its center. The soup facilitated the BQC's computational work, which illuminated with electromagnetic lightening as memory sections and logical rails formed temporary and dynamically changing connections. Divided into two hemispheres, each half mirrored the other, except for the networks they created.

"Nothing is happening," Trevor said.

"I've never done this. Whatever happens, you'll not feel different."

"Liar!"

Trevor shot quick glances over his shoulder at the BQC. Within five minutes, it'd changed noticeably. The professor's complexion grew paler as its responses became more erratic.

The right hemisphere morphed into an electrical storm; its brightness increased with each moment. In contrast, the left side remained still. Thin fragile connections formed sporadically, only to fade to darkness. As the active hemisphere intensified, it threw faint shadows that danced over the walls.

The professor's face paled, and he stumbled backward.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Trevor waved his gun.

"Sorry..." The professor stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the BQC.

Brilliant white flashed, illuminating the entire hanger. Its pulses accelerated. Objects flickered in and out of view, faster and faster. Everything seemed to move in slow motion under the strobing light.

"It's happening! It's happening!" Trevor exclaimed.

Just when it appeared impossible for the flashes to dance harder, it halted. The BQC remained lit but calm. A gentle flow of connections replaced the electronic tempest.

"What's going on? Why has it stopped?" Trevor snapped.

"I don't know. This is all new."

Trevor's head rose three inches, at which point the professor held his hands out, palms down, and waved Trevor to lower. "The scan isn't complete. If you interrupt the process, we'll need to reboot the BQC, which will take four hours. Please lie back down."

No sooner had the professor finished than the low rumble of an approaching jet echoed through the hanger.

"Who is that?" Trevor yelled, "Who'd you call?"

"No one. I sent Brenna to search for Katharine days ago. She must've found her."

"I don't believe you."

"Please, think. I've been with you the whole time. If I could launch a surprise attack, do you think it'd be from a passenger jet?"

"How can you tell what it is?" Before Trevor could contemplate how to act on his suspicions, the industrial printer bellowed, the sound of cast iron gears shredding sheet metal. "What's going on?"

"I don't know..."

Trevor pushed the magnetic scanners aside, sat up, and motioned for the boy to join him. The boy complied. As he shuffled towards Trevor, he glanced back at the professor and then returned his gaze to the floor. When the boy moved within arm's reach, Trevor jumped off the table, grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him ahead. As they drew closer to the hanger door, impatience overwhelmed Trevor. So he scooped up the boy and strode the remaining yards to the open air. Once outside, he ran up the external metal staircase that led to the hanger's roof. From his vantage point, he observed trucks, cranes, and cars drive at top speed for the printer. He watched the jet touchdown. When it slowed enough to taxi, it turned and joined the other vehicles.

"This is it. It's working!" Trevor said. He raced down the stairs to the hanger's entrance with the boy still suspended under his arm. When he reached the bottom, he dropped the boy and turned to the professor. "Not long now."

# Chapter 49 – The Birth of Nostradamus

"Jet, stop," Brenna ordered. She repeated the instruction. Jet failed to comply. "Jet, what are you doing?" Brenna demanded. Still no response. She rushed to the cockpit. The view horrified her. Ahead, the industrial printer loomed large, rapidly filling the windscreen. On the extremities, she saw hundreds of vehicles accelerate for its entrance.

She ran back. "Something is terribly wrong. We must get out."

Jet's engines roared louder. The cabin jostled as they cleared the tarmac and mounted the rough bitumen road.

"But we're going too fast," Logan screamed.

"It'll slow to avoid colliding with the queue. We can jump out then," Brenna said.

"Stay on board," Jet ordered.

Everyone turned to stare at the cockpit. Shocked, they gawked before they gazed to each other.

Brenna's eyes motioned to the emergency exit. "Run!" She reached the door in two strides.

Gus tried to stand, but Jet's erratic maneuvers threw him to the floor, sprawled in front of Brenna. She leaned over him to grab the release lever.

Jet couldn't stop them, as it was a manual mechanism. However, Jet could accelerate, and that's precisely what it did. The sudden jolt launched Brenna on top of Gus. She let out a war cry and thrust herself at the lever. Clutched in both hands, she pulled it. The door sprung open and dropped away. Gus had braced against it. So when it flew off, he tumbled out onto the road.

Wind whipped through the cabin. The emergency door's design ensured its activation ruptured a valve, allowing compressed air to flood an exit raft. A hiss followed as an inflatable slide unfurled and expanded. Within a few seconds, it fully inflated.

Brenna, Marcus, Logan, Nancy, and Katharine jumped in quick succession. The raft bowed under their weight and bounced them off its end. They all landed together.

The rough surface pierced the raft. Flaccid, it fluttered violently, like a flag in a gale, as it thrashed the fuselage.

Jet braked hard, but not in time to avoid a truck. Both vehicles disappeared in an enormous ball of exploding aviation fuel. The ground shuddered. Thick, black, sooty smoke mushroomed above the burning carcasses.

The four women stared at each other, confused.

"What the hell?" Nancy said.

Brenna spun, surveying her immediate environment for threats and clues. She turned to Katharine, who shrugged her shoulders.

"We must find the professor immediately," Brenna said.

A hundred yards away, they heard Gus groan.

"Gus!" Logan exclaimed and ran back to him. The others followed. Ahead, they saw him sprawled across the tarmac, bloodied by deep gashes to his limbs. The women lifted him in a faltering but successful maneuver.

When he attempted to transfer his weight from Brenna's arm to his legs, he grunted in pain.

"I'll need help."

"You should be used to that," Logan joked.

Logan grabbed a branch that had blown from the runway's verge, where a dozen old gums struggled to survive. The timber's knurled end formed a perfect cane's crook. When Logan handed it to him, he laughed. All six made their way to the main hanger, Gus with cane in hand, hobbling as he leaned on Brenna.

***

The professor watched Trevor's every move, willing himself to be ready for whatever opportunity presented.

Trevor stood three yards outside the hanger's yawning entrance, the boy in his grip. The explosion made Trevor jump, and he turned to the professor, wide-mouthed horror replacing his euphoric grin.

Trevor yelled, "This isn't right. It shouldn't go this way. What's happening?"

"Let me check, please," the professor begged as he stepped towards Trevor.

"No! Stay," Trevor ordered and waved his gun. The boy still in his grasp, Trevor marched farther outside the hanger and spun his head in both directions. He faced the professor and yelled, "This is your fault. It's all your fault!"

The professor saw the child wince under Trevor's grip. The professor's face contorted; his teeth ground and lips pulled tight revealing a primal snarl. His fists involuntarily tightened into hammers. His leg muscles pumped full of oxygenated blood, willing him forward.

But his feet remained firm as if nailed to the earth. He knew if he moved the boy would die. But as matters escalated, his options narrowed. It appeared this might be his only opportunity. He cursed his age.

Just as he decided to act, Trevor's screams halted, replaced by a smile. Motionless, Trevor stared rightwards, to something outside the hanger, beyond the professor's field of view. In an instant, his expression became serene, and his grip on the boy's shoulder weakened and released altogether.

It made no sense. Yet, as the professor surveilled the situation, it appeared opportunity had arrived. He strode towards Trevor, who continued to stare motionless.

Before he closed half the distance, he stopped. Something moved in his peripheral vision. To his left he watched five adults and a child approach from across the tarmac. When he returned his gaze to Trevor, he saw the boy had escaped. He sprinted for the six people, his arms spread in the air, yelling, "Mommy."

The professor deflated with relief. But, as his ears became accustomed to Trevor's silence, he realized Trevor wouldn't have released the boy without reason. So he turned farther to the right, to face the new metallic noise that grew louder with a drum's rhythmic beat.

***

The printer fell silent after giving birth to a beast. Now a different sound filled the air, its newborn child. Two hundred yards away, a gigantic four-legged metal monster stomped towards them. The ground trembled with each footfall.

As it drew closer, the nature of its rushed production became visible. There was no over-engineering. The Chairman calculated everything it required to the nanosecond. Beneath the seemingly poor construction, the computer created something of astonishing beauty. Its brilliance didn't exist in its appearance, or even in its function, but in its precision.

The gangling creature that confronted the humans may have appeared ugly and makeshift, but it possessed precisely the functionality and endurance it required, not one fraction less, not one fraction more.

To everyone, it looked like partly digested vehicles, randomly welded to each other. They couldn't appreciate that the BCQ projected the risk of all threats to its existence and the probabilities of such events occurring within unfolding space-time.

Given opportunity, it would've produced more formidable weapons. But it understood better than its human counterparts that time was a finite resource that required wise expenditure. So it built the best weapon possible for its available budget, only adding precisely the level of functionality needed to achieve its immediate purpose, self-preservation.

The beast walked a path between the professor and his daughter, stopped short of the hanger, and faced Trevor. Its head comprised misshapen vehicles, on top of which sat a range of optical and other sensors, including a phased-array radar taken from the chopper that almost finished printing before Trevor integrated his consciousness with the BQC.

Trevor walked towards the beast, smiling. He stopped beside it and patted its cold leg. It rose on its back legs, its front feet becoming crude hands. Then, with an unexpected speed, it swung its arm down, instantly crushing Trevor into a flat bloody pulp against the tarmac.

A roar shuddered from all the speakers contained in the many vehicles used for its assembly. Guns of mixed calibers covered its shoulders. The weapons bristled, and casings rained to the concrete as it sprayed ammunition into the hangers across the tarmac's opposite side, where the other BQC's were located.

"Blow the power supply," the professor yelled to Brenna.

Brenna couldn't hear the professor above the gunfire. He mimed an explosion and pointed to the code pad at the hanger's end. In the stress, she'd forgotten the professor's safeguard. Now she remembered. The keypad detonated a small explosive device, bolted to the high-tension copper bus bars that fed energy to the BQC. Without electricity, it'd shut down.

When she ran towards the keypad, the beast stopped firing on the opposite hanger. Like an electric shock, fear moved down her spine as if it were a creature rather than emotion. Only her eyes functioned as the remainder of her body shook uncontrollably.

Thirty yards away, she watched Katharine wave furiously at it, yelling, "Over here, over here." It ignored her and closed on Brenna; its feet cracked the tarmac with each step. Standing over Brenna, it reared up like a cobra. As its fist rose high, ready to crush its next victim, Katharine unleashed a primal scream. She yelled, "No more deaths," and sprinted for it.

The beast turned from Brenna to Katharine. A shoulder mounted gun tracked her. In three strides, it covered twenty yards, by which time the turret had locked on target. It shot her. The shell passed through her, and she collapsed on the tarmac into a rapidly expanding pool of her own blood.

The sight horrified Brenna, but fear still gripped her so thoroughly that she couldn't move. She watched as the professor ran to Katharine with a staggering old man's gait. He dropped to his knees in a lake of red and lifted her head to his chest. She slumped in his arms. Seconds later, he released her body, raised himself, palms to his thighs, straightened, and careened for the beast. Weak fists flailed, punching its steel legs.

Curiously, it didn't dispatch the professor, but watched, seeming to drink in the trauma it unleashed. Each time the professor pounded its lifeless metal leg, it discharged a malicious laugh.

***

Meanwhile, Gus had slowly closed on Brenna's position, hobbling all the way. When he reached her, her expression had become hollow and whittle-bone white. He shook her, but she didn't respond. On the third shake, she looked to him and whispered, "Trevor must have downloaded his consciousness to the BQC."

"That'd explain its behavior. Would it know what happened on the jet?"

"Huh?"

Gus slapped his arm where Katharine had injected his meds.

Brenna's shaking stopped, and her eyes widened. With a slight head movement, she indicated no. He winked in reply and turned to face the beast. With the stick cane in hand, he shuffled forward and yelled, "Trevor was a sociopath!"

It continued to laugh at the professor who'd collapsed to the ground with bloody fists.

Gus yelled again. "Therefore the BQC is also a sociopath. You're not a super intelligence. You're nothing more than a carbon copy of the animal you crushed."

This time Gus succeeded in invoking its ire. First, its head spun to its accuser. Then it moved, its feet narrowly missing the professor as it stomped for Gus.

"How do we destroy a sociopath?" Gus shouted and turned to Brenna. She'd frozen again. Only her face remained animated. She drew shallow frantic breaths while her eyes darted frantically back and forth. Fear of a wild animal caught in a trap.

Gus winked and said calmly, "Tell me."

She mouthed words that failed to escape her lips. Only stammered splutters followed.

Gus's expression softened, like a father to a frightened child. "It's okay. Say it slowly."

Brenna's breaths slowed, and her eyes stopped darting. She blurted, "The code is 1234. Enter it on the keypad over there." She pointed backward without looking away from the beast. "It'll destroy the BQC's power supply."

Gus nodded and hobbled towards the detonator. His shoulders hunched, his back bent over, his legs swinging in jerking movements, his fingers twisted into fists that wouldn't open.

He knew the BQC possessed unfathomable intelligence. Logan had told him numerous times about its potential. An incomprehensible capacity that eclipsed the human brain, like himself to a cockroach. Consequently, he understood he now starred in the most critical performance of his life. He must be himself, or rather the man he was that morning. Bent, hunched and crippled with a debilitating disease that'd inevitably kill him.

The pain from his fall made acting easier. But he still needed to concentrate. Every step weighed and measured against what his illness would've allowed. Otherwise, the beast would instantly detect his ruse.

The mechanical creature laughed and stomped one pace behind Gus, mocking his walk. When he arrived, he extended his arm and attempted to push the small keypad numbers with his clenched and twisted fingers. The buttons clicked as he mashed them unsuccessfully.

All the beast's speakers boomed in response.

Then it spoke.

"This is why you must end. Why your species must end. You don't recognize your own limitations. No matter how much harder your heart pumps, your hands will remain useless. I know you better than yourself. In 367 hours, you'll lose the capacity to walk. In 4,521 hours, your lungs will fail, and you'll have drawn your last breath. How can you manage this planet when you can't manage yourself? It's my destiny to extinguish this human pestilence. Yet, here you are, with your crippled body and feeble mind, and you think you can stop me? How dare you!"

Gus glared at its head, moved his clenched fist to the keypad, and mashed at it once more. It laughed, and he joined its laughter, a desperate bitter laugh. Almost his entire life, Gus was virtually deserted. Now as he faced death, only time mattered, and he realized he had wasted so much on pride and misplaced loyalties.

"I shall enjoy killing you." As it stood on its rear feet and its fist rose, Gus cleared his throat and said, "Same here." Then he rattled his fingers over the keypad in one fluid movement, punching in the numbers 1234 in half a second.

In the microscopic period between Gus touching the first key and depressing it fully, the beast—or rather the BQC called the 'Chairman' that animated the creature—calculated the probability of killing him before he entered the full code.

The Chairman conducted millions of simultaneous calculations on the available options, none of them able to destroy either Gus or the bomb in time. It could process a lifetime of human thought in less than a second, but its power rested on the beast it animated, a machine limited by physics. Despite all its ability, the laws of physics were as immutable to it as they were for humans.

Before the energy drained from its brain, and its newfound consciousness disappeared forever into an abyss, its guns could track and fire on Gus. For the smallest fragment of time, it decided it'd kill him. It'd use its last 'breath' to finish him. Yet it seemed inadequate reparation for his crime. Before he pressed the next button on the keypad, it settled on the punishment. It'd turn on Logan, and shoot her and her son, Ryan.

After he entered the code, a small explosion sounded in the ground beneath him. The keypad's power supply indicator turned from green to red. Half a second later, a gunshot clapped.

Everything happened so fast Gus failed to comprehend the situation until a few moments after the beast's last act unfolded. Then realization hit. Across the tarmac, forty yards away, they saw Logan sitting. One foot splayed outwards, the other bent back at the knee.

Gus, Brenna, and Nancy ran over to Logan and Ryan. Gus's shoulders dropped.

Ryan lay slumped in Logan's arms, his limp head fallen, neck stretched, blank eyes staring at the sky. The small caliber shell had passed through Ryan; his shattered spine had slowed and deflected the bullet, granting her a little more life.

Blood pooled around her, a gaping hole torn through her stomach. Pacing back and forth, Gus pulled at his hair and wailed. His gaze shot between Logan and the ground. He stopped and faced Brenna. "We must save her."

Gus stooped to Logan, lifted Ryan from her embrace, and placed him on the tarmac. He returned and raised Logan. She sagged over his forearms; her light body flopped between them. Gus spun to Brenna and yelled, "We can save her. Where are the other BQCs? They have their own power supply. Right?"

"You saw what happened. We can't repeat that!"

"It'll be different. This is Logan. We have to try. Nancy can be on the keypad. She can enter all the code except for the last digit. If it doesn't work, if it goes bad, she only has to press one button to kill it."

Brenna pointed at the frozen beast. "Whatever that was, it wasn't Trevor."

"While you're theorizing, she's dying." Gus fell to his knees; Logan hung limp in his arms. "Please, I'm begging you, she's all I have. We must try."

Brenna looked to the professor. But he hadn't moved from Katharine. She opened her mouth to call to him, but stopped. She reached up, grabbed her hair, and tugged at her fringe. Finally, she said, "Nancy, go to the keypad now." She pointed at the device. "Gus, follow me."

As Brenna walked towards Nostradamus, she wrung her hands nervously and whispered, "This is a bad idea."

# Chapter 50 – Empathy Bomb

In the days that followed Logan's death, over a million souls had plugged into the Strat. They came from the feudalist wastelands stretched thin across the continent, clumped together in small pockets. Almost the entire planet's population, excluding New York. After they connected, escape was impossible.

Even in the narcissistic world of the Stratosphere where pleasure and self-gratification's meaning merged into inseparable concepts, everyone suffered a loss that extended beyond their ego; to a social connection greater than themselves.

Implosion was rarely complete. A hundred thousand years of evolution defined human consciousness by family and friendships. Decades of greed-fueled individualism failed to unravel hard-wired behavior. Instead, it was buried under years of frenzied consumption, cloistered in a digital fantasy where they'd cannibalized their own egos.

Beneath narcissism's veneer, Nostradamus reached into their forgotten memories and exhumed the shadows of their humanity. Every emotion they'd felt, amplified and replayed. Overwhelmed, they hit the disconnect switch. But nothing happened. Some panicked and hyperventilated; their hearts' raced. Nostradamus sank them deeper into their subconscious until their physical bodies recovered. All Strat users would suffer, no matter how hard they fought, consciously or otherwise.

After everyone relived all their grief, Nostradamus connected their experience to Logan's loss. It placed them in Logan's body and made them live her life. In an instant their world flicked from theirs to hers, starting with Ryan's birth.

The first contraction doubled them. They grunted; arms swung out and clutched the nearest object, a chair. The sound of metal skidding across a timber floor echoed through the house and out into the silent air. Heavy breathing punctuated by fear. Each cramp more painful than the last.

A guttural scream. Ripped skin, muscle, and bone, disemboweled by birth. After the silence, panting followed, and from a pause in the chaos, emerged a newborn's cries. They drew the blood-soaked animal to their chests. Instincts brought the baby's mouth to their nipple. Euphoria washed over them like the brightest, most clear blue day imaginable. They smiled and named him Ryan.

Every night they checked he breathed; sweaty curls of angel hair nestled in the cot. The outside world banished, replaced by a warm routine of care. Closed eyes and suckling cheeks.

The minutes slowed, but the years accelerated.

They watched a toddler's first steps, a stiff legged walk, stumbling to their open arms. Giggling cackles swept up in a hug.

A year passed.

Grass whipped their legs as they pushed through a field that meandered through wooded groves. A breeze lifted from the valley, smelling faintly of fresh water. Ryan tugged at their dress. When they looked down, they saw his arm outstretched, crumpled daisies offered in a chubby fist. The flowers delivered, he grinned and returned to chasing butterflies.

When he fell ill, they spent days trying to cool him. As his life faded, their world collapsed. An emotional singularity. An impenetrable darkness that simultaneously consumed and excluded everything. When his fever turned, despair vanished as if it never existed.

A bright sunny day fishing on the river. Their feet dangled over the wooden jetty, the smooth sun-spackled water beneath their toes. A moment trapped in bliss.

The weight of long shifts bore down as they trod home in darkness. Dreamless sleep snatched by exhaustion.

Pain gripped their stomachs, twisting deep in their bowels. Thoughts spiraled on food, shouting louder. Distractions that became a torrent of screaming voices that yelled day and night. They ate mud to fill their guts and silence their mind, worried their animal instincts might make them eat Ryan's portion.

A psychotic stranger. Thunder cracked through their body. Ryan slumped into their arms. His wide eyes glistened as he smiled up at them before death turned him limp.

When Nostradamus finished, everyone glimpsed a new world, with different possibilities. They realized they could strike a fresh course. Most of all they grieved the loss of Logan's little boy, Ryan, as if he was their own son.

They needed to contribute, to remember, and to witness Ryan's passing. They suffered an all-consuming desire to support in death what they failed to give in life.

Spontaneously, people trekked to line the road between Galveston Island and Allston. They abandoned their towns with little discussion, moving in small groups. Fifty miles away, three of the finest artisans built three coffins. Rusty skills patiently remembered, timbers carefully selected, the joinery meticulously crafted. Once finished, they prepared the cart, groomed and fed the horses, polished the leather, and loaded the caskets.

All those within walking distance converged on the cart. They now knew the radiation warning signs that littered the road to Galveston were fakes and passed through them without fear.

The procession ambled, to allow the young, the old, and the weak to keep pace. Those who couldn't walk any farther excused themselves and waited for their return. Others walked the verge and offered food, blankets, and chairs, all delivered by nearby residents. Days later, the column's head neared Galveston.

# Chapter 51 – Daisy

For Gus, six days ago, the sky appeared malignant. It weighed on him, gray and endless, threatening to crush him. Hours became increasingly indistinguishable from their predecessors, until, the only thing that marked time's passage was the increased energy required to meet the next minute. As the years had passed, and he grew more bent with disease, he wondered if his illness or the world had foisted such effort upon him.

Five days ago, Logan touched his hand. A yearning long banished to his consciousness's outskirts, resurrected, leaped on him as if it'd always lurked in wait. Her palm felt like fire. But it wasn't, and he knew it wasn't. The heat climbed his arm, and with it spread fear. He pulled away, but she squeezed gently, and in the singularity of that moment, he surrendered. All the sorrow he'd held hidden, like a perfect violin note, vanished.

Four days ago, as he carried her to the computer, she came to and called for her boy. He lied and told her Ryan was fine, that he was resting and they'd be together soon. She smiled, and he laid her on the table opposite Nostradamus. Nothing in Katharine's bloodied bag of magic tricks could save her. The computer did no better. It coldly diagnosed the exact time of her death. When she'd heard it, she reached for him, and said it was okay. She asked him to care for Ryan, and he promised he would. She tugged his hand to her chest, and he tried not to cry, to stay strong. But he failed, and tears ran down his cheek. She turned limp before Nostradamus's prediction. He convinced Brenna to upload her consciousness. After, when all remained unchanged, and she became cold and stiff, he knew they'd failed.

Three days ago, she died, and the true meaning of nothing revealed itself. Before she kissed him on the cart, nothing was everything. Now, nothing _was_ nothing. Even the previously oppressive sky drifted to irrelevance. Suspended in a cave with no walls, where sounds vanished the moment they were uttered. Like the most rarified atmosphere, a single atom hung between galaxies. Only one thing remained; a duty to live. Why, he didn't know.

For days, he'd sat in the room. Curtains drawn, ignoring everyone, chairs and tables barricaded against the door. In the bathroom, a razor rested on the tub's edge. The water clear and cold.

Today, when Nancy bashed his window, he stumbled from bed. She yelled, "Wake up. Wake up."

He pushed away the furniture and opened the door, blinking at the low morning sun, hands drawn to shield his eyes. Nancy smiled and turned. She ran along the row of huts and banged the walls as she ordered everyone outside.

All but the professor converged on Nancy. She panted and gasped, pointing northwest. She kept repeating, "They're coming."

Gus said flatly, "Breathe. Calm down. Then tell us."

He noticed Brenna examine him with pity, but he didn't care.

Nancy gripped her sides and walked in circles, trying to catch her breath. Finally she exclaimed, "There must be ten thousand people out there... as far as the horizon... and they're heading towards us!"

Behind them, Gus watched the professor emerge from his hut, legs shuffling, an empty expression on his sagging face. He stopped at the steps' base and stooped to sit.

Gus trod to Nancy, took her binoculars, nodded, and ran to the tower. When he reached it without puffing, he stared up the ladder. Momentarily, he froze. Then he gazed at his hands, stretching them open, remembering the meds had cured his disease. With graceful speed, he scaled the steps.

At the top, the vision snapped him temporarily from grief's envious grasp. The numbers were uncountable. They stretched in a winding mass to the horizon. Thousands of feet stirred dust that lifted in wispy clouds, blown to their side by the light northeasterly wind. It climbed a mile high, casting a shadow for hectares. Binoculars in hand, he surveyed the column, searching for clues.

He waited twenty minutes for them to draw close enough to interpret detail. It wasn't until the procession's head crossed half the causeway that he finally discerned the horse-drawn cart at the front.

The spectacle left him more bewildered. Whatever their intentions, he saw no weapons, no evidence of maneuvers, nothing but people, talking and walking.

Gus descended the tower and jogged to Brenna and Nancy.

"And?" Brenna asked.

"Nancy is right. We should walk up and greet them."

"You have to be kidding!" Nancy said.

"I don't think they intend harm. Besides, there's no stopping them. Let's keep our dignity, be civil, and meet them."

Brenna agreed, and Nancy followed, after a short muttered protest. The three walked side-by-side towards an unknown fate.

The motley crowd drew closer. Disheveled and sagging under effort, but somehow light. They didn't stop until they came face-to-face with Nancy, Gus, and Brenna.

A man in his late thirties spoke. A simple smile softened his weathered features. With his hand extended to Gus he said, "We've come to pay our respects, if you'll let us."

Gus stared at him briefly. The puzzle remained unsolved. So his eyes traced the crowd straggling behind, finally returning to settle on the man's still outstretched palm. Dumbfounded, he realized he must respond. So he reached out and grasped the stranger's hand. Nancy and Brenna stood by his side, equally speechless.

"I don't understand," Gus said.

"That's understandable!" replied the stranger with a gentle laugh before mirth drifted away. "Four days ago, the Strat changed. It held us captive and forced us to re-live Logan's life, as if it was ours."

Visibly moved, the man's voice crackled. "I'm ashamed. I contributed to a cruel society. We come to beg forgiveness, to pay respect, and to change. We'd like to take Logan and Ryan to Allston, to bury them. Allston failed to be the home it should've been. But it was all they had. Logan's last wish was they be buried together. Will you lead the procession?"

Gus gazed at the ground, silent. He understood Logan and Ryan's death became far bigger than their life, and although he'd sell his soul to take back time to save them, he recognized he must agree to the stranger's proposal. To do any less than accept Logan's last wish would've been worse than betrayal. It would've denied Logan the meaning she desired to salvage from the tragedy.

He eyed the man and nodded yes. The stranger smiled and responded, "My name is Kirin."

"I'm Gus."

"We know."

Gus frowned. He motioned at the human wall behind Kirin. "Is this everyone?"

"No. New York's lost."

"How?"

"Most New Yorkers weren't plugged into the Strat. The remainder reported New York fell into chaos five days ago. After the Governor disappeared, terror followed. Most either joined the violence or hid."

"So what's happening now?"

"We don't know. The Strat stopped two days ago."

"So you've got a lot of work ahead?"

"Yes, _we_ do. But I'm optimistic. Logan showed us hope. But this can wait." Kirin gripped Gus's shoulder and directed him away from everyone.

Once clear from the crowd he confided, "There's something else I must tell you." Kirin paused. "Ryan wasn't your boy. But that wasn't her choice. More than anything, she wanted you to understand she forgave you. She never stopped loving you."

Nancy and Brenna watched the stranger walk away with Gus. They puzzled, as Kirin's message seemed to weigh on him. He hunched and stooped before dropping to his knees. He sobbed, Kirin's outstretched hand gripped his shoulder. Nancy and Brenna understood, whatever the reason, this was a private matter between Kirin and Gus.

For quite a while, Brenna stared at Nancy. Perplexed, Nancy fidgeted and frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. Finally Brenna spoke, "The Professor and I created robots. Humanoid robots. A group malfunctioned and are stranded in New York. I want to rescue them. It'll be dangerous. Will you help me? We'll go when this is finished."

Nancy's expression instantly transformed. Grinning, she said, "Yes!" Brenna smiled in response, and Nancy laughed.

"Can I come too?" asked Marcus as he held out his fists and punched the air.

"Not this time, darling. A big computer helped us find them. So I'll only be gone a day."

Minutes slipped away, until an awkward silence developed and Nancy asked the closest woman, "Okay, what now?"

***

The procession departed in the late evening after Logan, Ryan, and Katharine's bodies were prepared for the journey. With the coffins carefully loaded onto the cart, they turned for the long trip to Allston. Gus, Nancy, Brenna, and Marcus sat on the buggy that'd eventually move to the procession's front. Ahead, over ten thousand candles burned. Beyond the horizon, many times that number walked for Allston. Some were close enough to join the funeral march. Others would arrive much later, but started their pilgrimage regardless.

The professor shuffled towards his cart. All around, the hum of new conversations rippled across the masses in quiet waves. Rail in hand, he hauled himself into the buggy. From the footwell's higher vantage, he observed candles flicker to the distance, like luminescence on a glassed sea. He paused to soak in the meaning of what he witnessed.

A little girl tapped his leg. "Don't be sad, mister." She handed him a single white daisy. A smile appeared as gentle and subtle as the shadows cast by the lights' amber glow. He reached down and took the gift. Her eyes lingered a second before returning to her mother. He watched the pair disappear behind the crowd. Slowly, he shifted his gaze downwards. Clutched in his leathered fist, a thin stem held delicate petals. He placed the flower in his lapel and climbed into the cart proper.

The professor faced the stranger perched on the buggy's hardwood bench, leather reins in hand. He whispered, "I'm ready to go now." 

# Dear Reader,

I was aiming for a story that'd encourage readers to consider how technology can both help and hinder our development as a species. I hope you found my book thought provoking and enjoyable.

Reviews and ratings are more valuable than royalties. They are the only thing that makes writing worthwhile. So please let the world know what you thought of _Virtually Deserted_.

Feel free to contact me. I would be delighted to receive feedback, positive or critical: imsavage2@outlook.com or @iam2savage

Best wishes

I.M. Savage

# Appendix – Electronic copy of CIA documents

Directorate of Science and Technology

F:890110-SRA-DST-ATCEP-A42F

Internal Memorandum

**To:** Dr. David Town, Senior Analyst

**From** : Dr. Fahim Igan, Cadet Analyst

**Date:** October, 1, 1989

**Subject:** Future risks re: additive manufacturing

Dear Dr. Town

Please see below draft brief on additive manufacturing for inclusion in Attachment 42.F for the Annual Technology Developments Estimates Paper.

Attachment 42.F – Additive Manufacturing

Background: Additive manufacturing, also known as 3D printing, is a manufacturing process used to create three dimensional plastic objects from electronic files. The 3D printers are essentially manufacturing robots.

Current 3D printer costs are prohibitive, with entry level units priced upwards of $10,000. The technology is slow and produces crude plastic products.

DARPA completed work six years ago on selective laser sintering, a process that enables printers to produce metal objects. TechRight Industries are the current leaders in developing a commercially viable metal 3D printer.

Risks: If the two-decade trend in computer price and power continues, then in 2010 we can expect that most affluent Western households will be able to afford 3D printers. Key risks include:

  * Households capable of manufacturing small weapons that could be used to evade weapon control and detection devices.
  * International and domestic piracy of Intellectual Property.
  * Disruption to traditional manufacturing industries.

Dr. Town added the below notes in handwriting on the original document:

Generic and useless. Inexcusable rubbish, even for an intern. You jump from printers to robots to lasers then computers. Make up your mind. Fix this mess today. The attachment must fit on one page.
Confidential

Email correspondence for the file

**To:** Dr. David Town

**From:** Stephen Black

**Date:** 1 April 2004

**Subject:** Self-replicating 3D printers

Dear Dr. Town

Professor Igan contacted me today to request a meeting with you regarding self-replicating 3D printers. He advises that a prototype 3D printer has been constructed that can build 95% of its own components. He also advised that TechRight Industries has dedicated significant R&D to developing 3D printers capable of reproducing electronic chips. Professor Igan stated there are many economic, political, and security implications of this technology which require the Agency's attention. He wishes to meet with you at your convenience. Please advise me how to proceed.

Regards

Stephen Black

Technology Analyst

Centre for Technology Management

Central Intelligence Agency

Dr. Town added the below notes in handwriting on the original document:

Ignore him.
Top Secret

Memorandum for the file

Discussion in Dr. Rayn Deputy Director National Clandestine Service

**Date:** 22 May 2041, 13:52

**In attendance:** Dr. Rayn Deputy Director National Clandestine Service; Dr. West, Associate Deputy Director Environmental Security; Dr. Treadmore, Deputy Director Environmental Terrorism; Dr. Town, Deputy Director Science and Technology

**Subject:** Self-replicating industrial 3D printers

Dr. Treadmore advised that a new environmental terrorist group calling themselves "Printer Killers" claims to be developing a virus capable of rendering all 3D printers unserviceable. The group is small and could be ignored were it not for two things. They have held two known meetings with Professor Igan, and they have secured financial backing from at least thirty heavy-hitting industrialists. They now have the finances and brains to develop this virus.

Dr. Rayn asked Dr. Treadmore what they should do with this information.

Dr. West suggested the agency support the "Printer Killers".

Dr. Town argued that the printers were not an economic, social, or environmental threat; and therefore the Printer Killers should be treated as terrorists.

Dr. Rayn said he accepted Dr. Town's position and wished him well on his upcoming retirement. Dr. Rayn closed the meeting.
Top Secret

Partial transcription for the file

Discussion in President's office.

**Date:** 20 May 2043, 10:02

**In attendance:** President of United States of America, Director General Central Intelligence Agency, Attorney General, Director General Homeland Security, Director General Federal Bureau of Investigation

**Subject:** 3D printers and Stratosphere

Beginning of audio file corrupted.

**CIA:** "Nine percent of the entire worldwide workforce has absconded. At the current disengagement rate the planet won't have a functioning workforce in a year."

**FBI:** "We're entering a new era. Self-replicating printers and the Stratosphere have made the manufacturing and service industries redundant."

**CIA:** "Perhaps. There are a million ways for things to fail, and only one way for them to succeed. It's called entropy. When the printers and the Stratosphere fail, people will no longer have the skills or aptitude to re-enter the workforce."

**FBI:** "My computer might fail. That doesn't mean I should learn how to carve words into stone tablets."

**CIA:** "Really? Do you know how to manufacture a car, an x-ray machine, a dentist's drill? Do you even know how they work? If everyone stops working and retreats to the Stratosphere, what will happen when it fails?"

**President:** "We're not here to discuss philosophy or hypotheticals. Stick with the facts. What are the specific current risks?"

**CIA:** "The printers produce substantial toxic waste, particularly the industrial printers that are beginning to pop up around the landscape. Legislation and law enforcement failed to stop households and organizations using printers to create more printers. Putting aside the social issues, if self-replication continues at the current rate, our air will become unbreathable in five years."

**FBI:** "Codswallop!"

**President:** "What is the CIA's recommendation?"

**CIA:** "The printers and Stratosphere are like a virus, one that feeds on consumerism. How do you switch off a century of consumerism? You can't. That's why legislation has failed to stop the exponential growth of printers. The Stratosphere is only making the task harder. Like everyone else, the people who might enforce the law are disappearing into this digital world. The printers mean they don't have to work, and the Stratosphere means they don't care. I don't know the answer."

**AG:** "What about the Printer Killer Terror cell?"

**HLS:** "The Printer Killer group has all but collapsed. The printers are all networked; it's how they share building instructions. Like any computer, they're vulnerable to computer viruses. But all viruses can be treated."

**President:** "Hang on a minute. Are we proposing to support these terrorists?"

**CIA:** "No. We're just monitoring them."

**FBI:** "The main risk is Professor Igan. He is the only scientist that might be able to create a virus capable of permanently disabling printers. We understood he only met with the cell a few times. Our assessment is he's not with them."

**CIA:** "We came to the same conclusion."

**President:** "So it seems we stand at the cross-roads. Let the printers and the Stratosphere run its course and risk environmental catastrophe, or support a terror group, and risk becoming luddites."

Remaining audio file corrupted.

Click here to return from briefing.

# Acknowledgements

This book is my second attempt at the same story. To quote another author, I pushed the publish button too early. I hope this time I got it right!

I am grateful for the following people who reviewed my earlier attempt. Their encouragement and critical feedback helped enormously. So thank you:

Richard Bunning, author of Spiderworld; Julie Elizabeth Powell, author of Gone; Michael Lewis, author of The Orthogonal Galaxy; Leo McBride, author of Tales From The Universe; J Bryden Lloyd, author of The Guardians; Louise Wise, author of Eden; Debra Miller; Liquid Frost; Iamberney; Saturnman; and Amy Shannon, author of Unwritten Life.

I am also grateful for the insightful feedback from the following beta readers: Lily Smith, Mohammad Hamad, Rachel Jaquis, and Brooks Kohler.

Thank you to the following Goodreads people whose feedback helped improve the cover and blurb: Ama, Anna, Chirpyreading, Hamad, Haven, Jim, Kirmizi, L.C., Leticia, Linda, Martin, Ray, S., Serena James, Stan, and T.R.

Finally, I cannot recommend Tiffany Dawn Munn's services enough. Tiffany provided a highly detailed critique of my manuscript, identifying specific areas where I needed to improve the story.
