SAN FRANCISCO, CA
Subject 12, Daniel Shelly in his previous life. Born in San Diego at a bad time to be born in San Diego. The war came. His parents died with a lot of others, collateral damage. Evacuated to Boise. What’s the opposite of a Bunker Baby? A flash-blind kid in a refugee camp.
That was a long time ago. Currently, Daniel is in a K-hole in a basement lab owned by a tech-firm. Physically he’s in an isolation chamber, an egg shaped thing that starves the senses. Outside, delicate skeletal things, precise instruments. Robot arms with surgeons hands wait at attention, insectoid and automatic. Still now, swift and precise when called algorithmically and automatically. A great bundle, appearing fiberoptic, runs into the head of the egg and into the skull of the man within. What enters him, his brain, is more a needle.
The spike in the man’s brain is covered with tiny fissures, ports, from which the finest filaments extend, tunnel, dig into brain tissue laterally. Really in every direction. The micro-filaments are flagella-guided–little microscopic bug legs dragging bodkin-tipped conductive wire into the meat of the organ. The result is a grainy hologram of a man’s battered brain with a spike, like the trunk of a tree growing down, it’s branches splayed out spear-spread.
The body is fluid fed, IV. Some great Shulzie beneath the rig floats the body on a strange force. An effect so piss-poor-partial understood, it may as well be magic. The limbs of Subject 12 twitch and strain at the elastic tethers. They hold the man, number 12, limbs splayed–a body rounded-down to “vessel”, downgraded to a jar for his own brain.
“Holy Light” he mutters again and again again. They record, probably for posterity, as the previous 11 attempts at this abomination suggest he will die at some point. At present, the tortured thing is alive and semi conscious, the K-hole accentuated by an exquisite and unique hallucinogen and more than a bit of a hypnotic.
*
“Make him go into the computer.” The middle manager in the grey suit. He has two emotions: bored and angry, and demands urgency and efficiency from all. He’s trying to reason with a man in a lab coat, allegedly a doctor, whose micro doses of something magical reached and breached the “macro.”
“Hey.” He snaps. “Do you even hear me?” Claps in front of his face. Dr. Feelgood starts. “Make him go. Make him upload.”
“He’s not a cat, I can’t simply herd him places.” Doc leans back on a lab stool. They are in an observation gallery above the chamber–the auto-surgical suite. The room stretches and shrinks. The ridiculous man in front of him so deliciously, so exquisitely distorted and textured by the drug(s). He looks even more silly.
“Focus degenerate.” Compliment coming from a fascist. “Why is the subject not doing what we need him to do?”
The sweaty-faced doctor gathers himself enough to tap-tap at the console in front of him. Two brains at a state of rest. Boop. A third hologram hovers. The perfect picture of three brains rotating slowly in three dimensions, frozen light, ghost glass.
“Guess which brain is brain dead?” The suit guesses correctly. “Great work. Which one is our subject now?” The suit is correct again. “Excellent job.” I’m your supervisor, smartass. “I’m the talent, the expert, and I’m not sure what you do here that a nagging ai couldn’t.” I sign your check. “Pretty certain code can do that.”
The Doctor continues, “there’s something weird.” Tap Tap. “that’s FMRI of a brain engaged in conversation.” Points to Subject 12’s real-time scan. “Notice something?” Less light. “Accurate but insufficient. More activity than a coma, sure as shit less than a human brain talking, saying words. We’ve had a few, a few subjects, that if I didn’t know better were in some form of hibernation.” Poke the bear and wake it up. Wake his brain up. Do it now.
“This is why I call you philistine. Do human brains hibernate? Typically?” I don’t know. “The answer is no.” The doctor takes a few drops, then the whole of an eye dropper of something viscous and purple into his mouth. Snorts something out of the crook of his thumb to balance himself. Sways. “I went back, man on a fuckin journey, and we’ve seen ten of the last 11 exhibit something similar or same.” We’re moving forward. “Oh my god, I’m trying.” We’re moving forward. “And sometimes you go back and stop and you think to do that, to move forward. There’s something weird we do not understand about our subjects, the people we keep killing.”
Below, an insectoid arm, robotic, skeletal reaches from the wall. It’s servos are near silent. The thing is swift and precise and gentle as it does expert maintenance on the body in isolation.
“These subjects. This list of potential subjects was drafted by Abel, was it not, before?” We do not discus Abel. There are no records of our having anything to do with that monstrosity. “Yeah. Now.”
Middle Manager snatches the druggy by the face: “Really hear me. There is no record of Lux-Tech in relation to Abel because Abel ’emerged’ from networked bots, out in nature.” The Doctor nods, fearful, sweaty, the manager’s knotted face distorted past distorted as he ruins his victim’s precisely un-calibrated high. “Glad we understand each other.”
*
Special Agent is sitting at his desk at the home that is not his home. Fake work, real consulting firm. The lap top wafer with the interface, haptic and holographic hovering–display and keyboard called into being only when the slate thing is powered. It’s sits in front of him. On it is a spreadsheet where beans are counted, not by him but the silent ‘ai’ gliding behind the money math, beneath the “snitch malware.” The boss at his N.O.C. job installs productivity managing software as SOP.
Standard “Great Compromise” and “New New Deal” shit and the aftermath of pandemic and conflict: white collars work wherever they want. And where there’s tall buildings, there’s anything from retrofitted co-op housing, to vertical farms and renewable platforms. In return, the assumption is privacy is gone. That last bit, the ghost of privacy, is proving the poison pill for that once great compromise.
There’s no such thing as off the clock, and no one talks politics near a work device. And no one leaves a work device in a Faraday cage or in a quiet room too long–prolonged silence is taken the same as expressing the wrong opinion. Do either, and they’ll find a way around labor law to shit-can your ass, to fire you.
Not terrible in a world where everybody left alive got their first plate a few years back–its a “butter not guns” economy. But the ones who do corporate in the here and now would rather die than work on a farm or in a factory. Even if to be a “suit” in this moment, private sector white collar, is like living under the KGB in a previous era.
The ‘ai’ beeps, applies a gentle force feedback ‘tap’ to the side of Special Agent’s head, reminds him to quit daydreaming. To move his fingers as if typing while the machine does his homework for him. Tap tap. Fake Fake. Tap Tap. Eta James is lilting from a speaker on a shelf. Two more beeps.
Agent taps the ear piece hears the ‘ai’ curated portion of one of his bug’s most recent burst transmissions from Lux-Tech: something dirty from the basement that might tie the company and ‘Reagan man’ to Abel. The test results are in, you’re the father.
“Ishmael, pause workflow.” Yes, sir. Special Agent addresses his ‘ai’ aloud, plays his role flawlessly. He feels like a frayed rope. Like a condemned man. “I’m meeting a colleague, a potential source, for discreet drinks.” Understood
His hand passes over the panel on the desk, print reads, drawer lock pops and he transfers the small weapon to his waistband.
Elevator deposits him in the underground parking garage. “Ishmael, cue scuttle. Ready my route.” Affirmative. Head neutral, peripheral vision “on a swivel.” The package he’s about to dead drop is cued up on his phone, his second phone.
Worst case he ‘scuttles’ and Ishmael burns this identity (and himself) as Special Agent bugs out to a life where he has a name. The man, the Agent, the identity’s phone pings. Head down to a text from Anne the source he’s handling: ‘I need to see you. Get me out.’ “Fuck” Foot steps, behind you.
Ishmael hears the rubber soled shoes on concrete long before the man can. Agent sees her face, distorted pig nose in the nylon pulled over her head. Sees her and a shadow behind her in the mirror of a car ahead. Phone to pocket, hand to belt to gun. The tap tap of feet quicker than he gauged.
A belt up, like a lasso-loop, like a garrote. The shorter woman behind him lunges up to choke him with it. Duck. He does. Left arm lurches up to catch the noose, snatches the belt, pulls-leans-pivots and tosses her over his shoulder in a heap.
Agent wheels with the pistol pulled, shoots twice, man following falls. The woman is back up freak-fast, belt around his neck, he gets the free hand between the leather and living flesh. Her legs wrap around his torso, crushing. The clatter drop when she swats the pistol away. “Ishmael” Still standing he twists staggers and slams her into a car. She snatches his earpiece out. “Scut.” She throws it, far. “Scuttle.”
“Who you talking to?” Fuck you. Alice. He gasps it out. “My name is Anne, pencil dick.” She hisses. Chokes harder. He pulls the little knife waist band, stabs blind.
“No. Fucker.” She gloats. Special Agent slides to the ground. Anne pinned between his back and a car, choking him to death with a belt, legs wrapped and locked. Void tugging at the edge of his vision. He swipes weekly. “No.” The knife slides under a car. She frees a hand while he struggles then struggles weaker. Punch to the shoulder, cold and narcotic sweet.
The man the fed shot sits up, brushes two flattened rounds from his vest, wincing. That’s the last thing Special Agent, David, sees before the black.
*
When the white panel van with some fake business ad on its side leaves the parking garage there are two bodies in the back: Special Agent and Sam, corpse of the assistant to the ‘great man.’
She will dispose of the bodies, Anne. She will take the express train to Chicago, the artery. From there south. She will fix this. Rid of her nylon mask and dead-eyed she turns on the radio before pulling into traffic. She sings along sweetly to her playlist: “If I die at twenty-three, won’t you bury me…”
*
NORTH OF PEORIA, IL
“And when the grass grows over me…” Shh hark!. Dolores stops singing to listen to the servos and the sound of galloping metal at some distance and closing. The four travelers wait off the road in tall grass.
Jack is a deer. “We’re all fuggin deer, now.” Jonah on his belly. Dee crouched near Jack and Abbott sulking in the rear, apart, crouched and hiding in tall grass.
ARMED RESP. RESPONSE. BACKUP. BACK. BAKCUP. BACK. The two great dogs bark loudest and deepest, the smaller models yipping at their flanks and heels. ARC’s, the big ones, Armed Response Canid-bots or whatever the acronym once meant. They lope less like wolves and gallop more like bison.
Jack is making the “deer movements” she demonstrated and whispering “deerdeerdeer” tensely. Dee watches the things, not moving. One of the small dogs identifies the fauna and bounds on, the pack breaking around their cart and an abandoned car–continuing on to secure a civil disturbance reported the day before by their fellows.
One lingers. Steps close, too close to Jack. A big one, the ARC. She’s frozen. The metal beast’s head is shaking like its got mad cow. ASSESSING. FAUNA. FAUNA. And it’s head slumps, and twitches as if lost in some code-reverie. The muzzle of the high caliber weapon welded to its back axially tremor-twitches back and forth across Jack’s head, a pendulum, the Sword of Damocles.
Through the grass, Jonah sees the thing bleed, hydraulic fluid drip-dripping from its shot-up guts. He can see part of it’s face, a chunk of re-bar spearing it. The thing grinds and sputters, Jack is shaking.
Click click. Down the road one smaller dog chases little ghost lights above the road. The pack-member that waited for the old one. They pop and dazzle, ephemeral fireworks. Click. Snap. Pop. And the big beast rises to look.
The gun off her, Jack sighs and sinks slow to ground.
The ARC barks: ASSESS. ASSESSING. And the two stragglers begin down the road, the mechanical dog and sow, both still deadly and mad but distracted. Dee and Jonah watch Abbott half out of his hiding grass, eyes closed snapping, muttering to himself. He leads the last two drone dogs of the pack far off and away.
After the dogs go, and then after the tension and when the fists un-clinch. Jonah pukes in the weeds. Jack peels back the tarp, snags a pillow. Lays in the grass howling into it only to pop right back up.
“Way to be useful, dad.” I am nothing if not self-interested, from Abbott.
“I intend to reclaim my vessel and skedaddle. I’m not “fighting” Abel.” Yeah, we’re doomed without your inner light. “I just don’t get what you think you will accomplish. How do you intend to fight him? You think he’s got one body?” I’ll unplug him. Dolores rises and starts walking south.
The others follow her, Jonah pulling Jack’s cart while she walks for a while. “So if you manage to muck up his power source. What happens? You poked him in one of his million eyes and he floats a barrage balloon over you and kills you.” You won’t be here! You get to fly off for milk and cigarettes again! Not your problem.
Dee stops in the road, kicks dirt, continues “I will fly a crop duster into the heart of the barrage balloon after a stirring speech about politics for Jonah and Jack.”
“I love that movie.” It has its moments, Jonah. We’re gonna kill god. Yes, Jack. The wild woman digs in the cart relocating bedding and improvised weapons and canned goods and bits of whimsy. She sets aside bags of ditch weed and mushrooms and the little brown bottles and tinctures.
“Would these help?” She’s holding a bandolier populated with bulbous grenades in one hand and a satchel charge with two incendiary explosives dangling over it loose and delicate and freely, just, dangling.
“Oh! Ok. Wow!” Jonah exclaims. “Yes! Helpful. Can I carry those? Please.” She tosses him the sack of explosives, he gasps as he catches the incendiary that almost falls to pavement. Jack slips the bandolier over his bent neck, kisses the top of his head. “Thank you Jack.”
It’s late in the day. As they walk on, Dee makes Abbott explain the layout, everything he remembers of that bunker beneath Peoria. Floorplan. Design. Systems. And Dee demands he repeat it. Why? “Because I will ask Jonah to force feed you something nasty if you don’t” He wouldn’t
“I might if she asks nice.”
“Tell me dad, tell me again, where in Abel’s bunker does this go?” She walks in the red sunset holding a mining charge in one hand. An incendiary device in her pocket. There’s a tall building or two on the horizon and a lot of broken toothed rubble piles growing slowly-footstep-slowly a ways away. Red light on pock-marks by the side of the road.
She sees cars being ‘consumed by nature.’ And Dolores, who enjoyed reading Rachel Carson, she wonders how nature likes drinking their oil and transmission fluid and eating their break pads? She wonders at the ones who called the war a “purge” or “necessary”, the ones that re-discovered that trash written by Malthus and worse men.
The “obligation to endure” is really the obligation to care and to care for. It means the future has to live with the fuckups of the past. With the Abbotts and the Barrage Balloons and the Reagan ghosts and cars next to fields of landmines and UXO. This doesn’t account for whatever was in the Midwestern soil after more than a century of industry, what people spilled on the dirt and plowed under before the mad dog drones started roving and rampaging and leaking hydraulic fluid.
She places the deadly thing in her bag. The last light lingers, the breeze perfect, the air almost sweet. She thinks people are the solution and the problem, always has. “The obligation to endure” has as much to do with caring for people as for caring for the super-fund sites and dumps they live on. She starts her song again, “If I die at 23, won’t you bury me in the sunshine?”
END DOLORES (7)