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Motus Vita (5)

Posted by Ebonstorm on September 29, 2013
Posted in: Clifford Engram, Fantasy, horror, Motus Vita, Serial. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

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a tale of clifford engram

“In racing, they say that your car goes where your eyes go. The driver who cannot tear his eyes away from the wall as he spins out of control will meet that wall; the driver who looks down the track as he feels his tires break free will regain control of his vehicle.” 
― Garth Stein, The Art of Racing in the Rain

Looking out the window of Father Nosceti’s raggedy little church I could see the fog that heralded the arrival of the Night Train enshroud New York City. I was running out of time. Time is relative, or so the quote by Einstein went.

When you are with someone you love, time is fleeting, when you’re burning your hand on the stove, time goes on forever. I’ve also realized that when you are in the wrong, a second can seem like forever while you figure out how to make it right.

If your memory’s good, you remember Manny, my esteemed associate, who emptied his handgun into the surprising voice of a longtime enemy and the last person we expected to find in the office of a witness protection candidate, Father Nosceti. The voice belonged to a vampire, Albrecht Fleischer, whom I had hoped to never lay eyes upon again.

Manny’s response to Albrecht was completely understandable. Secretly, though I will never admit it, I would have loved to put seven or eight bullets into Albrecht myself but this was not the time, nor the place.

Granted, Albrecht did kill his extended family. And his reason was one of expedience, not because he was starving, or because there might be a reason which might make killing a man’s family understandable or acceptable in the right circumstances, a war, or because they were carriers of a deadly plague. He killed them because they were in his way. This was a scene about to get out of hand.

And I had about one second to put it down, before it spun completely out of control.

As the bullets dropped from Albrecht’s outstretched hand, I remembered they were our bullets. Marked, sealed and sigiled for flavor.

Manny and I have worked together for nearly fifteen years and one of the reasons I don’t carry a gun is because he does. No need to replicate what is already being done better by someone else was my thinking. I used my unique skill of channeling to take advantage of our teamwork.

Using my cane, I tapped it on the ground and I activated the runes on the bullets and each came to life a spear of light pinning the vampire to the floor as spikes of light cut through him.

In their current state, they wouldn’t hurt him because I didn’t want them to. This version of the spell is meant to only immobilize him. Giving me perhaps ten seconds to make this right.

Before I can say a thing, Father Nosceti finding the situation intolerable, boomed out a surprisingly powerful “Stop!”

Everyone was momentarily frozen in varying states of weapon readiness. The four bodyguards were in action, doors bursting open and very large caliber firearms swinging into place after the first rounds were fired.

The two in the room had already taken positions in front of Nosceti, ready to protect him from vampire, mage and mercenary alike.

Manny had already dropped his first clip and reloaded, determined to meet Albrecht’s charge with a gun in his hand. Knowing him like I do, this second clip was filled with something of a more vampire-killing nature.

By activating the light cage, I hoped to avoid any further escalation. It only would hold Albrecht for a minute.

“You are all my guests. Put your weapons away. Now.” Nosceti’s display of power, faded as he fell back to his chair coughing violently. His gift was his voice, a tool of seduction, coercion, and if necessary, mind control.

After his relocation into witness protection, all of the Agency’s operatives were rendered immune to its power. It had also been limited keeping him from utilizing it with the strength he had in his youth. In these close quarters, it was still quite effective.

“Remove your spell, or I will break your long bones, slowly sucking the marrow while you watch.” The vampire was already testing the limits of the light cage, but since part of it was formed from the bullets embedded in his flesh, he was pinned from within and without.

We used this spell when we have to return targets alive to headquarters, or when we need to make a barrier to aid in a hasty retreat. He wasn’t going to break it for another minute, no matter what he tried.

I pushed Manny’s gun down slowly and he seemed to return to something resembling sanity. His pathological hatred of vampires had saved our lives more times than I can count so I was willing to forgive this breach of protocol.

“Lord Fleischer, we beg your forgiveness. We were not aware you were a guest of Father Nosceti. I will release you at once.” Tapping my cane on the floor again, the light cage fell away and the vampire fell unceremoniously to the ground.

He stood up, brushed himself off as if nothing had happened. He reached up to his chest, plucking the remaining two bullets from his undead flesh and handed them to me as if he had just plucked a couple of flowers. “I demand blood tribute for this affront. His attack cannot go unpunished. Shall he be paying for it, Engram, or will you?”

“Is that necessary, in this time of crisis, Albrecht?” Nosceti had regained his composure, apparently surprised that the vampire would invoke the blood tribute for having been wronged. This was an Old World tradition, rarely used, and generally a thing done only between vampire leaders and their thralls.

As the room absorbed the request, everyone returned to their positions and Albrecht loomed over me, his Scandinavian heritage displayed in his height and build. His blond hair waved over his face, contorted with barely contained rage.

He was within his right and I had to balance our current needs over his pride. I could challenge it and delay it, but he would want need to escalate it making it a physical challenge which could end in death.

Now that I think about it. That may have been exactly what he wanted.

I didn’t have time for his petty revenge politics. “I will bleed for his sin.”

Manny immediately pushed his way between us. Being larger and more imposing Manny looked Albrecht in his eyes while he spoke, “No, boss. I can’t have you doing that. We might need you whole later.”

I am not going to pretend I am happy with what happened next. It was just another sign of a day going straight to Hell.

Albrecht finished pushing me to the side and before I could even protest had snapped his mouth on Manny’s neck and the sick popping sound accompanied his piercing of his flesh. His fangs slashed into his carotid artery and Manny’s body tensed up like he was being electrocuted. Part of the horror of the bite of the vampire is the conflicted emotions while you are in the throes of the event. The bite is an orgasmic event masking the horror of what is happening. But to make it worse, the victim knows they are dying, even while they are unable to resist, only adding to the energies absorbed by the vampire.

Vampires feed on the blood and the terror of the victim combining them in the form of a powerful magic infused into the flesh of the vampire. The older the vampire, the greater the spiritual energy bound within their flesh. Since most vampires are incapable of active magic use, they grow more powerful with age, increasing their supernatural abilities which can vary depending on their family bloodline.

Albrecht was also transfixed, his rock-hard vampiric form had become a statue, nearly-invulnerable, a self-defense mechanism against several different vampire predators known to attack them since they are immobile during feeding. Vampires may be an apex predator in their own shard but the ecosystem of their world is as durable and dangerous as they are.

I twisted my cane on the floor, grinding its hardened tip into the wood. The teak, alive in my hand responded to my emotional state, and had begun storing my excess emotional energy, weaponizing it for potential use. I was already rolling the two bullets Albrecht gave back to me in my hand, connecting the flesh and the viscera which he was so kind to provide to me, to a powerful spell. One strong enough to kill him dead, if I wanted it to.

And maybe if I didn’t.

My spell would turn him into ash. And there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it. But that was only because he had given me his viscera-covered flesh on the bullets. Without them, his natural damage resistance would make him one of the most dangerous supernatural creatures on Earth, after angels or demons, with werewolves pulling into third place.

So your next question is likely to be why isn’t the world overrun with these terrifying and frightening undead supermen?

Vampire propagation is limited by two things. The first was, to make a new vampire, you had to have a willing subject. Part of the magic of creating vampires is tapping into the spiritual void within a soul. The greater void, the more powerful the vampire childe.

This means people who don’t want to become vampires, don’t believe they can become vampires, or simply refuse to embrace the darkness will not become a vampire even if their sire wants them to.

This means the creation of a childe is is not taken lightly, and each potential candidate is screened carefully. They have to be willing, sane and not so void obsessed that they go berserk in a few years and end up attacking their sire’s holdings, killing the help, destroying their house and maybe even attacking and killing their sire. The void was the source of a vampire’s power.

The second and riskier proposition was that creating a new vampire caused a profound weakness in the sire. A prolonged weakness that cannot be overcome until their child is secured spiritually. The sire creates a spiritual connection with their child and during this time a vampire is weakened and easily attacked.

Most vampires have to be surrounded by loyal acolytes whom they can trust during this period of vulnerability and usually go into seclusion when they find a worthy candidate.

The final word on vampire reproduction is the leadership of the Councils of the Red Watch. With the controls set by the Council, creating a new vampire cannot be done unless a vampire is destroyed.

They are a zero-population species. They rigidly control their numbers because even with such limitations, it could be possible for them to overpopulate an area in a matter of a few generations devastating the human population. But long before that happened, human fear would cause them to find the vampires during the day when they have none of their abilities and kill them. Historical record attested to this.

I knew Albrecht was taking his time, trying to cause as much fear as possible. At the rate, the average vamp draws blood, a pint a minute or so if they are trying to be neat or to extend suffering. It’s been two minutes.

Two and a half. Nosceti is staring at me. Intently. I realized why in a second. My cane was beginning to glow. I was so intent on my watch, I had lost track of my cane and its absorption of my crazy. At two minutes and forty-five seconds. I began to change my grip on cane. As I picked it up off the floor, all four guards drew down on me. I didn’t care.

At three minutes and thirty seconds, the killing would commence.

He began to slow at three. But he did not release him. I charged my cane and raised it above my head. The guards pointed at me, pointedly. Nosceti’s face was emotionless and he hadn’t moved but his guards seemed in tune with his desires and moved as one.

So no one was more surprised than I when they didn’t shoot me.

At three minutes and fifteen seconds, I struck Albrecht with my cane and his protective layer of psychic energy shattered. The blow blasted his shirt and jacket off of his body. His ghost-white flesh resounded like I had struck a marble statue.

He didn’t stop. I drew back and struck him again, this time releasing my crazy stored in cane with the force of bomb. Blood formed where I struck this time and he loosed his bite but did not stop drinking.

My third blow was designed to tear him asunder, releasing all of my channeled anger. The light came back to his eyes in time to catch my cane with his hand as I brought it down for the third time. He had the blood frenzy in his eyes. He had no intention of stopping if I hadn’t attacked him.

He dropped Manny’s limp form and whipped his clawed hand toward my face. This was going to hurt.

“ALBRECHT!” Nosceti’s voice froze the very air in the room around the vampire.

Frozen, his claws tickling my cheek with tiny beads of blood forming at the very tips. Like a vengeful angel he stood perfectly still, as the fire faded from his eyes.

I dropped to the ground to scoop up my friend wiping my cheek along the way. I drew a sigil with the blood from my cheek on the center of his icy-cold forehead. I channeled my qi into him, activating the rune. As my qi entered his body, I could feel the psychic ravages left by his attack.

The Eye of Harmony opened and closed. The spell was successful and he would be as alright as anyone could be under those circumstances, minus three and a half pints of blood.

When I looked up Albrecht had taken up his seat in the corner, this time without the mood lighting. I picked up my cane and strode to the corner.

“I invoke Blood debt. You damaged him more than you had to.” I was rolling the two bullets in my pocket trying to consider the ramifications of turning him into a smoking pile of ash. Did I want to have to explain to his father, the head of the local Red Watch Council?

“What foolishness are you playing at Engram? I took tribute. It was my due.”

Suffer not a monster to live. I closed my eyes and prepared myself to launch the spell.

Nosceti stood up and with the support of his guard hobbled to where the vampire was sitting and looked him dead in the eye. “You took advantage. I agree with Engram. You owe the Blood debt. I have dealt with your family long enough to know the traditions and I know that you do. You took tribute and then you damaged his friend. Given his mission tonight, he would have needed his friend at a higher capacity than you have left him. So you must accompany him until his quest is complete or until you save the life of his friend or his master. That is the law.”

Albrecht’s eyes flashed red. Not the ordinary thing vampires do when they just want to scare the hell out of people. No this was the other kind of red.

That horrifying thing they do just before they burn all of their inner energy in an orgy of destruction. They can supercharge themselves utilizing their lifeforce until it burns out. During that time they cannot be harmed physically and even magic can barely touch them.

This vampire blitzkrieg lasts about two minutes.

You would be shocked to discover how much damage a tweaked out, vampire on a meth-rage explosion of their total accumulated life-energy stolen over the course of their immortality can wreck. I have seen bomb scenes that didn’t match the pure devastation of this act of self-destruction.

Then the light faded, his blue eyes chilled me to the bone.

“I pledge myself to you, Clifford Engram in the place of your man, whom I have wronged.” These were the formal words, but there was no submission, no obeisance, none of the reverence the words were supposed to have. He spat each one at me like bullets. “Until such time as I return to you the hurt I have caused. Only then will my words, release me.”

I could feel the geas cover all three of us, binding us together in a spiritual obligation powered by his blood. In addition to hating this monster who just harmed my friend, now I was stuck with him until he is released by the efforts of his blood geas.

What else could go wrong?

A modem’s squeal broke the awkward silence, as it indicated the sound of an incoming fax message. Nosceti flicked his head and one of the guards disappeared in the back. He came back a few seconds later with a piece of paper which he handed to back to the old man.

He laid it on the table and the message was scrawled in big letters: ‘It knows where you are. Get out.’

“Now if we are all done trying to kill each other for the rest of the evening, I can explain what I brought you all together for in the first place.” Nosceti is helped back to his desk while I helped Manny to one of the chairs which got pushed out of the way in our altercation. “As I was trying to explain before our little incident. I know why the Night Train is here, and its my fault.”

Then the building rocked like a bomb just went off outside. A second later, car alarms and screams filled the air.

Gears

Jump to Motus Vita, chapter 6

Paranormal 2

Motus Vita © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Motus Vita (4)

Posted by Ebonstorm on September 22, 2013
Posted in: Chapter, Clifford Engram, Fantasy, Motus Vita, Serial. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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Manny drove us down to 42nd Street and Grand Central Station.

The entire area was cordoned off so we were forced to park about five blocks away and walk back. There were dozens of police, paramilitary and military people moving people and traffic out of the area. New Yorkers were a bit more skittish than I remembered them but for the most part were easily redirected away toward other destinations.

It took us a minute to get parked since the police were moving everyone out of the neighborhood, so we were forced to wave our badges around until people left us alone. Manny took his taxi magnet off the roof and put up his police magnet complete with flashing light. Then we just parked on the curb like all the other cops did.

We had about an hour to go and I wanted to be on time. Not everyday you got to meet an officially self-sustaining, high order, Chaos manifestation face to face, or face to train, as it were. Wouldn’t do to be late.

Manny popped the boot, the trunk for you Westerners, and showed me his handy weapons cache. These were the weapons he used when he was on an Agency sanctioned mission and needed some quick stopping power. There were a variety of small arms, shotguns, an AR-15 and a variety of already loaded weapon belts for all of this ammo. His formative experiences with the Second World left him with a strong desire to be prepared.

He offered me something from his first selection and when I refused, he mistook my refusal to mean I wanted something more exotic. He then moved to a black gym bag and touched it. He added a simple incantation while he unzipped it.

Once opened, a cold wind sighed from the bag and dropped the temperature in the immediate area twenty degrees. He reached in, leaning all the way to his shoulder and pulled out a frost rimmed bag with a shape coded metal chip on the strap. Inside was a fully automatic combat shotgun. One of his personal favorites. He pulled the shotgun out of the smaller bag and checked the action.

Knowing Manny, it was just a reflex, because I knew when he put it in there, it was already in top working condition. He loaded it, strapped it on and put on its accompanying ammo belt under his long coat which, not coincidentally, looked like mine. He also packed a machete in the coat and two nine millimeter handguns. He checked his ammo, noting the variety of sigils hand carved onto each round. Designed to stop a variety of Second Worlders, each was intricately handcrafted in his spare time.

He fingered a long handled mace lovingly and looked at me.

“Really?” was my reply to that quizzical look.

“You never know.”

“You are already carrying enough ordinance to fight your way through half a dozen grizzly bears and a regiment of the National Guard, I think we’ll be safe enough.” he dropped the mace back into its protective baggy and placed it in the Gym Bag of Many Things.

After fitting himself, Manny stood there, trunk still open. “No piece? This isn’t London or Wales or wherever the hell you’ve been working. This is New York. Everyone is armed here.”

I opened my coat and showed him my rune-carved long knife, half a dozen throwing blades and my spell-enhanced walking cane. He laughed and said what he always said when I eschewed a firearm. “Hokey religions and magic powers are no substitute for a good nine-millimeter.”

“That is why I have you, Manny Rodriguez.”

“Fair enough. Where to, Boss?”

“Something quick to eat. Don’t want to meet a god on an empty stomach.”

We found a pizzeria not too far from Grand Central and needless to say the pizza was magnificent. No matter where I lived, no place made pizza like New York. Yes, Chicago I am talking to you. We stood there eating our giant slices, wordlessly savoring it, until we had reached a point where our hunger would permit conversation.

“Have you worked out what you’re gonna say to the Night Train?” I saw Manny smiling over his mouthful of pizza but I knew the question had serious implications. I hadn’t a clue.

“Honestly, I thought about it all the way here and I have no idea of what to say. I don’t even know who I am going to be talking to. The train normally has people working on-board so I figure I’ll be talking to one of them.”

“Protocol Zero. Still no idea what it means? I mean there are eight to ten million people in New York. It surely can’t mean to make that many people disappear, can it?”

I was going to explain the level of information we didn’t have on what the Night Train was before I got that tingling in my arm that told me, trouble was on its way. I thought it meant the Night Train was arriving early.

Manny’s hyper-vigilance was already on it. “Boss, two o’clock. Two suits, not Feds.”

I wiped my mouth and took up my cane. Two burly fellows, carrying, nice suits, Italian-cut. Not broke. Clean cut, well shaven. Too much jewelry for Feds. Their shoes were well-worn. Working men. My initial assessment was Mafia or at least criminally-associated. I waved Manny down as they drew closer. No need for shooting if there didn’t need to be. I thought I recognized their leader.

There were four of them, two up front, two further back across the street. They were most likely just watchers, there was too much traffic for them to do much if I was as dangerous as they thought I was. “Do you remember me, Mr. Engram? I work for…”

“David D’Amico.”

“He prefers to be called Father Nosceti, these days, sir.” The leader was a massive fellow, easily six two and three feet wide. Even so, his suit was custom fitted and by a fine tailor. Being a criminal didn’t mean one had to dress like one.

“What can I do for you? I am on a schedule. If it’s just a friendly visit he’s looking for, it will have to wait until I finished my work.” I knew as I said it, it was likely to be anything but friendly.

“Father Nosceti would like just a few minutes of your time, Mr. Engram. He said it would be okay if you felt more comfortable with your bodyguard along.”

“It’s just a few blocks away. We’ll make it back in time for your appointment.” With those words, they assumed I would follow and began walking away up the street. They never looked back. I decided to let my curiosity get the better of me. The timing was too close to be coincidental. They knew I would be here. I wanted to know why.

“After you, Mr. Rodriguez.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Engram, don’t mind if I do.” Manny palmed his nine and put it into his outer coat pocket as we crossed each other, masking the action in our movements.

The walk was at a brisk pace and we found ourselves standing outside of a church, an old church, that looked abandoned upon first glance except for the new lock on the gate into a little used parking space. Streetlights were out on this side of the street, making the place look more foreboding. As I looked up, a swarm of bats flew from what might have once been a bell tower. I had to give them points for setting the mood.

As soon as we crossed the threshold two odors were clear to me. One of an overwhelming perfumed incense, completely dissonant, unpleasant, designed to put you off your game, capable of distracting you from the second more subtle scent. The scent of a recently opened grave. Dank, smelling of earthworm dung and musty aging fabric, with the mingling of old man smell, of shaving creams used in a bygone era.

It was the smell of Vampire.

Manny stopped as soon as he got a whiff of the place. I put my hand on his back and tapped him to go on. He continued to follow our burly escorts, who had taken positions two in front and two in back.

We walked into the church and down the central isle. Manny stopped to cross himself as we passed the central dais, looking up at the dimly lit Jesus upon the Cross. We were taken behind the raised stage and choir area and into a very tight stairwell and for a moment, I thought we might be about to be trapped.

I squeezed my cane and felt it become hot in my hand as its magics surged to life. I could feel Manny ready to spring left and squeeze off as many rounds as his itchy trigger finger could in two seconds. I knew it was numbered between nine and twelve.

The doorway at the top of the stairs opened and a warm, soft light came out, easing our trepidation. I relaxed my hold on the banister and continued my climb. This area was better lit and filled with religious artifacts, paintings and assorted tchotchkes. Then I felt it. The power, the presence of a supernatural force ahead of me. I stumbled and Manny caught me.

“Restrain yourself, whatever you see in there.” I whispered as he caught me. He grunted his assent and helped me steady myself on my cane.

The guards opened the door and the two in front took station on the inside of the door, while the other two stayed outside. The office was deceptively spacious with a large oak desk directly across from the door. Every wall was a floor to ceiling bookshelf and gentle lighting covered the space completely except for a small corner of well crafted darkness. I could feel the eyes hiding in the darkness but choose to focus my attention on Father Nosceti.

He looked nothing like I remembered him.

David D’Amico was a mob boss who ran a variety of “businesses” in Florida about a decade ago. Some of his work crossed into my territory when he began trafficking in human beings for Second Worlder’s who used living human ingredients in their spell casting. Our interactions led to the destruction of a safe-house, a crazed sorcerer and the deaths of one hundred innocent men and women, whom D’Amico was instrumental in their passing.

I was told to bring him in alive.

I wanted to burn him alive, slowly in the hottest hellfire I could summon, but back then, I was a better soldier than I was today.

Back then, I followed orders.

His sentence was for selling at least three hundred people as laboratory animals for the study of black magic. He was allowed to turn evidence against his trafficking friends and he was “relocated” in a witness protection program. His face was Shaped, his aura altered and he was given the cover of an old, fat priest working for the benefit of the people in New York. His aura shifting was designed to be a painful and continual reminder of his new life and the price of his freedom.

I looked in on him from time to time, mostly to be sure he was still suffering. It’s a karmic thing.

Yes, he was relatively reformed in that he didn’t do human trafficking but leopards rarely changed their spots. He found ways to amuse himself selling the excess spiritual energy from his parishioners to a number of Second World parasites. The Agency overlooked much of this lesser criminal activity because the evidence he turned allowed them to shut down a number of large criminal enterprises and he acted as a resource upon occasions. Didn’t mean I had to like him or be nice to him.

“I’m on the clock. What couldn’t wait until after I was done? By the way, you look like hell.”

Nosceti’s voice was thin and papery, little more than a strong whisper. Nothing like his previous bombastic over the top behaviors. This wasn’t an act. I wanted to Look at him to see if I could figure out what was wrong with him, but I didn’t know what my spell might trigger or what his hidden guests might do if I cast any magic. So I just listened. “Hello Engram, watchdog of the Apocalypse, I wish I could say you were looking equally awful but that would be a lie.”

He had a spasm of moist and unpleasant coughing. His bodyguards moved as one. One went to his back and held him up, the other poured a glass of water and added a squirt of an unknown elixir to it. He drank the water, sat back and pulled himself together. Once his breathing settled down, he continued, “Immortality sits very well upon you, my boy. Very well, indeed. As to why I asked you here, I was one of the people who had received the Protocol Zero request and recommended you for the job.”

Now I knew who I had to thank for the pleasure, but he wasn’t finished.

“As to why I requested you…, I might understand why the Night Train is not amused with New York at the moment.”

“Wow, you actually went with the pregnant pause thing? Or are you catching your breath.” Manny hissed.

I was displeased that Manny had spoken at that moment but I absolutely related to the sentiment.

“Muzzle your dog, Engram, or I will shut his trap for you.” A voice crept across the walls and floors, sinister, oily and supremely confident of itself. A familiar voice, I never expected to hear again.

Neither did Manny. Before I could stop him, his nine appeared in his hand and he emptied his clip into the chair barely visible in the shadows.

The chalky face of Albrecht stepped out of the shadows. He had been struck in the right shoulder, twice. Only the tiniest evidence of blood appeared and he did not appear discomforted by their impacts. He held out his hand and turned it over.

The rest of the bullets tumbled out onto the floor.

As he leapt into the room, he growled, “My turn.”

Gears

Jump to Motus Vita, chapter 5

Paranormal 2

Motus Vita © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Of Genes and Men (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on August 30, 2013
Posted in: 5 Minute Fiction, science fiction, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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“All men are slaves to their genes. Either through the efforts those genes have made over the course of the ages, or through the suspicions others have regarding genes that belong to groups other than their own. 

— Church of the Holy Genome, Cardinal Anthony Thomas, 2154 AD

“Sir, it’s back.” He had his back to the door looking out over the city from our new office window. 

Part of the city was blacked out again, and I knew when I walked into the captain’s office, I was making trouble for myself. I might have been safer walking the beat in that blacked out part of town. He didn’t say anything at first. His chair showed him in a partial profile, his angular face, craggy, tight, his hair in a crew cut, his police dress blues still on from the funeral earlier today.  He didn’t need any more bad news.

I figured I would try again tomorrow. I almost got the door closed when I heard, “Wait. What’s back?”

I came back into his office and closed the door behind me. “Remap, sir. I think it’s back on the street. I saw the meme-map in the downtown quarter last night.”

“Did you run it?” He almost looked as if he were interested so I gauged my next words carefully. If he was too interested, he might give it to someone senior and they would get the case. If I made it too small, he may decide it was just another false flag since we hadn’t had an outbreak of Remap in over ten years.

“Yes, I Q-Red it and I got a hit immediately. But whatever they were running on their end saw my police coder and decided to shut it down and scramble. All I got was a partial.”

“Listen Bernsen, the last thing we need is a real outbreak of Remap. I want you to follow up and at the first sign of real trouble, you call for backup. We are stretched thin…Take no risk you don’t have to. Are you current on all your genomic blockers and vac-serums?”

I went down to G-medical this morning and updated all of my blocks in the hopes of getting this case, but he didn’t need to know that. “Yessir, I was due, especially with the flesh-cutter bug released last week.” Out here, rival syndicates attack using genetically enhanced viruses, designed to disable genetically-enhanced humans, hence making baseline humans, in the only way they could be, valuable because they didn’t possesses any enhanced markers.

“The baseline district has been without power for over three hours, predictive engines indicate the probability of a food riot. They haven’t had a shipment to that section for two weeks. I need you there right now. Get another G2, re-arm, call for drone support and the two of you hit the streets. I need you to restore order while I talk to the mayor and Gene-seed Six to explain why we aren’t getting food shipments right now.” He’s was back in control of his emotions, giving orders again. Good, maybe that would hold him for a while. Maybe he would be able to use his rage to forget about Danny for a minute.

“I am going to take Chang-Wu, she is familiar with baseline physiology and is used to using restraint protocols.”

He turned back to the window, moved his hands and several windows popped up on the corner of his display system. “There it is. A 3102 is now in progress. I will run your drone cover until you hit the streets. Get the hell out of my office.”

“Okay, dad. But if you need me…”

“What part of out did you not understand?”

I closed the door behind me, got to my desk and picked up my P-108 multi-pistol, two reload forms, checked my suit charge and saw Chang-Wu already on her way to me. We nodded and proceeded to the flight deck. I put on my wing harness and spun up the gravitic propellers. Their spin-up sound reached their resonance frequency and became absolutely quiet. The flight techs thumbed us and opened the launch window. The air was bitter and foul, I sealed my helmet because it would be worse near the ground. We ran together and jumped out the window. We could hear the snap as they shut the windows closed behind us.

Chang-Wu spun and oriented facing me, then simultaneously we snapped our wings out and peeled away from the building. Four police drones followed at a discreet distance. They were fully loaded, their combat blisters flickering in the light of the still lit districts below us.

“Don’t you dare die,” came through my private vox. There was no ID code but I knew who it was.

But if Remap was on the street, I simply couldn’t guarantee that. I was too young for the first outbreak over twenty years ago but it was a level one controlled substance, whose use, possession or trafficking would result in execution. A substance so controlled, we weren’t even allowed to learn why it was forbidden.

We flew low and turned on our meta-material cloaks. Our helmets were polarized and multifrequency, so we could see each other, but no one could see us. What we saw was the standard signs of a food riot, common among the baselines. Their physical energy requirements were higher than the G1s or G2s so they needed food and it needed to be a consistent and high energy variety.

New Varda had a significant number of baselines since we were near a transit hub where lots of manual labor was still used. With the advent of G-Uplift, work became very specialized, either you had the cognitive ability of a genetically enhanced worker or you didn’t. The G1 upgrade was not usable by everyone and even if you could use it, you had to be able to afford it.

If you couldn’t, then you ended up in places like New Varda, shitholes where baselines scrambled to pay their food bills, lived in relative squalor and hoped they eventually made enough money to buy the G1 upgrade and migrate to another local city or off-world to a better colony, someplace where there were better jobs than mining or food production for slave wages.

“Reese, wake up. You know I can feel you, right?” Chang-Wu’s voice was rich with emotion. It was one of the reasons I liked working with her. When she G2ed, she didn’t become a machine, she became more real, more emotional, more human, whatever that means anymore. A small number of the G2 upgrades caused this reaction and those operatives became more valuable because of their low-level empathic sensitivity.

“Sorry about that. I’ll stay on task. Command, can we get an overhead sweep, map and an estimate of the numbers?”

“Already completed, you will not be able to contain this. There are over six hundred. They are attacking a food depot where they think stockpiles are kept. I need you to reach the center of the conflict and find me some known ringleaders. I will begin with a gas run along the periphery, pinning down and holding down the casualties. No lethal force. Identify, mark, and track.”

“Understood, command.” We hurtled into the darkness. The night sky in New Varda had an unobstructed view of the Core, so corelight lit the streets well enough for us to see by even without our G2 enhancements.

When we reached the depot, we hesitated as the heat signatures of the people near the center were off. They were seven to ten degrees higher than normal. These people were all Remaps. If I had any doubts, the bodies of the local G-zero police forces were scattered around the scene and their drones were crushed by blows of superhuman capacity. Only a mech or a G3 could put that much power into a physical blow. There were only a limited number of mechs on New Varda and they were all part of the company’s XM unit. The warehouse doors had been peeled back as if they were little more than cardboard. “Command, priority call. Temperature spikes. Baseline’s exhibiting G3 strength levels. There are at least fifty. And sir, there was some food in the facility, they are passing it out. Advise.”

“Can you see the G3-level baselines, they will have the most genetic damage. It should be easy to detect.”

“No, Command, the people outside are all low level users, their g-form changes are minor and likely temporary.”

“The drones are nearly finished with the outer parts of the riots. I will have them sweep your area and then you can contain the remnants immune to the gas.”

“Understood. Standing by.” We landed on a nearby rooftop but we didn’t spin down our gravitic harnesses. It would take too long to spin them back up and when they fell out of resonance, they would make noise. We still had plenty of power and if the drones did their job, we should be back before too long.

The drones showed up on my helmet display circling our position and then came into the central part of the district. This area during the light of day served as a central shopping district, so the looting had included storefronts as well.

Chang was looking down at the faces of the local cops and her face recognition software relayed their names. There were still six or seven missing. There was no local chatter either, which made this even more problematic since we depended on them knowing the locals to diffuse issues before they started. The drones crossed through the center of the town interrupting the activity as the gas settled over the baseline humans. It was a fast acting paralytic. It would last for hours with no long lasting effects other than a headache. In a few seconds the area was quiet except for the warehouse across the street. I could still see flashlights moving around.

Then they all went out. Chang nodded to me and dropped off the roof landing soundlessly below. I followed a second later, with equal precision. My multi-pistol found its way into my hand, though I was loathed to use it unless it was necessary. The company paid handsomely for each baseline here so the fewer we damaged permanently, the better. My pistol was set to launch flechettes with a more powerful neural paralytic, different from the gas. These left their targets with a loss of voluntary muscular control that lasted for a few days and the mother of all migraines.  But they’ll live.

We both sidestepped, half bouncing and half flying  until the warehouse entrance was in front of us.

There was nothing there. I quickly swept through every visible spectrum available to me. Nothing. No heat, no radiation, no light, no sound.

Chang signed to me to head back up. She signed to me “something’s wrong”. Before she could ascend, I saw her helmet explode into shards of metal and plastic, crumpled by an invisible fist. She shot backward and vanished into the darkness.

Skipping a half a step to the left was the only reason I still had a head. The blow glanced off my helmet but rocked me with a strength I had never felt before. Though I dodged the full-on punch even the glancing blow snapped my head backward and without a proper orientation, my flight-pack dropped me to the ground. Without my G2 physiology, that punch would have snapped my neck. I pulled myself together, shaking off the stars in my eyes . I looked up and then three Remaps simply appeared right out of a shimmer in front of me. But it was like no metamaterial I had ever seen.

They were grotesquely misshapen, their bodies swollen, their musculature a caricature of baseline physiology. Their eyes lit up catching every drop of the core light and reflecting it to me. Their eyes shone cat-like. My cracked helmet tried to run a face recognition, but between the damage it had suffered and the distortions of their faces, it was having a hard time.

“You were right boss, they never knew what hit them.”

“Shut up, you idiot. Young lady. I recognized you, that’s the only reason you don’t look like your friend over there.” I knew that voice. It was the foreman of the mining group. But he was one of the people who helped keep order here. Why would he be leading this?

“Our benefactors tell us today would be a very good day to claim New Varda for our own. Don’t take this personally. Tell your father to surrender or we will tear your headquarters up around you.” My face recognition software pinged with the confirmation of Der Namiag’s identity. “He has just one hour to surrender. Ask him what happened the last time Remap came to New Varda. He never saw it coming.”

The people in the courtyard stood up, their bodies twitching in the core-light, and with nary a word, each vanished right before my eyes. No sensor sweep could touch them and I tried them all. Then it was just me and Chang left.

Der Namiag and his lieutenants leered and stood over me. “One hour. We could be anywhere. Remember that. Let him know I appreciate the drones.” He gestured and the support drones flew south, away from HQ.

Namiag and company disappeared leaving me to cradle Chang’s still body. My vox was silent.

Of Genes and Men © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Red Star, White Sun (5)

Posted by Ebonstorm on November 1, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Hospitals, if they can be said to have a character, would have developed it based on the people they saved. Mount Sinai was a hospital who would have been said to have been a guardian of the poor, the weak, and the dispossessed. Mount Sinai’s walls of fine marble were covered in soot and ash, a testament to one of her primary tasks of destroying the dead and dying.

But it was not always so.

Her bright and sparkling corridors were once the exclusive province of the well to do. Founded at the turn of the last century, she was a product of her time. She was the hospital for the wealthy, the privileged, for those whose money could buy everything, even in a time when the bulk of the people had almost nothing.

She was the creation of the Victorian era and her origins had her foundations laid next to a grand cathedral in the center of New York City. Over time the two would eventually become a landmark, one of faith and one of healing in a time where there was too little of both. When they were finished building her, white walls contrasted the dark granite used to construct the church. They stood in opposition to each other, a testament to science, a reliquary of faith. The doctors in white and the pastors in black; each looking at the other shaking their head certain the other path was the path to damnation.

This was not to last.

Forty years and a generation of pastors and doctors later, the economy collapsed and both fell into disrepair. The ebb and flow of the times meant the church’s population would often grow directly in proportion to the quality of services available next door. The hospital was prepared against tough times and while its administrators minimized its services, she would push on during dark times.

Sinai did not close. She never did.

In a hundred and fifty years, Mount Sinai would never close her doors to anyone. Her lights might be dimmed and only the most dedicated would walk her halls, tend her sick, and bring solace to her wounded for the next two score of years.

Those unfortunates who found their way to her were in a bad way and though she did not have much, she tended them. Her doctors and nurses plied their craft with dedication, her janitors were equally focused. The two buildings would light the way for their part of the city. It would be cleaner, more beautiful, the people more generous and would maintain their quality of life as if protected against the vicissitudes of a cruel universe. They could not know there were other forces at work.

Mount Sinai’s strong walls had survived two World Wars, and a variety of smaller ones. Locked in the heart of the inner city, she was once a hospital only for the rich, who desired care but did not want to travel away from their opulent lifestyles. So while she started life as a refuge for the wealthy, she eventually became, as she aged and as the city grew into adulthood, a caretaker and bastion of those now too poor to have other choices. Somehow Mount Sinai always managed to have what she needed to survive. She drove her doctors and her administrators toward greater levels of capability. Her community loved her, they did whatever was necessary for the hospital to survive, somehow they knew, her survival would be theirs.

Their doctors and research facilities grew stronger and she grew larger, expanding into the local neighborhood providing clinics, healthcare and a personal touch slowly eroded by the march of corporate healthcare. Only the church stayed the same after a century, its bell towers, still crossed the skylines, well lit after a century.

When Mount Sinai was nearly a hundred years old, forty years ago, she was considered historical and the city realized her value as a symbol of hope in a decaying age. They rebuilt her walls, expanded her, reinforced her, and protected her. Her surgeons, doctors, scientists became legends in their own right, as if her desire to protect had seeped into the air, the water, their food, their love of life transformed into an art, a passion for lifesaving. When the Great Wasting was first discovered, it was found by those doctors who worked at Mount Sinai, ever vigilant for threats against her city.

The Great Wasting challenged Mount Sinai and her legion of practitioners. It challenged their belief systems (it wasn’t possible), it challenged their skills (we can’t stop it), it challenged their very nature of what good care was (we can’t keep up with it), but they did not stop.

At Mount Sinai, stopping wasn’t ever considered. One hundred and fifty years of tradition broke for no disease. They believed it was only a matter of time. The champion of that cause two years ago was Dr. Chaucer.

The head physician, Carolyn Chaucer, MD sat back from her terminal took off her reading glasses and pinched her forehead trying to relieve a headache. A headache likely caused by trying to uphold the standards and principles of the great institution even while she danced on the head of a pin to maintain a hospital during martial law.

For the first time in one hundred and fifty two years, the doors of Mount Sinai were closed to the public.

Soldiers guarded her doorway and a DMZ stood between the world and the hospital. The church next door was also included within the DMZ, having been taken over by the military as a staging area.

Dr. Chaucer had served this hospital for nearly thirty years now and was in her early sixties. She was a good sixty. She was fit. She could still Zumba with the best of them. Working in hospital had given her a great respect for the frailty of the human condition, so she made every effort to maintain both her body and her mind. She was still a beautiful woman, but her recent cares had added years to her eyes.

Just her eyes. Men still sought her favors, until they looked into her eyes. She had seen too much. Most fled checking their watches, remembered meetings they were late to, made stammering statements to excuse themselves from her imposing psychic presence.

The corner office, her only concession to her position’s status looked out at the church next door. She had never set foot inside of it. Not for a lack of curiosity, but for a lack of faith. Growing up religious, she had no truck with it after adulthood. Even though this particular church shared a fence and was considered to be one of the most beautiful of its kind, she would have nothing to do with it, out of principle. But there was nothing preventing her from admiring its lines. As her eye slid down the building, her mind crossed the fence back into her own backyard.

Fatigue coursed through her bones as she considered the three hundred patients she had in and on the grounds in varying states of disrepair. The hospice regions on the edge of the hospital grounds were the saddest part of the hospital to her. These patients never entered the hospital proper and their caretakers were restricted as well. Clean facilities established on the grounds meant staff could move only between particular regions unless they were equipped with the proper military biosuit. She had been wearing hers for days and had been relieved to take it off, have it cleaned, take a bath and for a moment allow the air to touch her skin. Considering the horror of her job, she felt naked without it. She put it back on before she sat down to finish her paperwork.

Flicking through the close circuit data-stream, she looked at the various hospice regions surrounding the hospital. There was nothing to be done for these people consigned to this area except to keep them clean and dry and hope for the best. The disease was painful, the never-ending moans and cries as the disease ravaged their bodies, consuming their nerve endings, left most begging for death. Many nurses would secretly comply as the screams reached a terrifying crescendo, night after night.

For most, relief never came. Painkiller supplies ran out after the first year. Most would die within a three week window after being admitted.

A few lasted longer, maybe ten percent. And a curious few might last a few months. But there were two classes who would remain in hospital care and be moved into isolation units for study; those who didn’t die, but did not get better. This disease was a deadly one. Either you lived or you died. End of story.

These two exceptions were the reasons she was still practicing medicine.

Ninety percent of the people infected with the Wasting died. They were eaten from within or from without by the symptoms of what appeared to be flesh-eating disease. Most died so quickly, they never made it to the hospital. If the disease was internal, most never knew what killed them. Autopsies show internal organs completely consumed by the disease. Early sufferers died this way. As the disease continued, later sufferers started showing external injuries as flesh melted away, almost over-night.

Within a week to fifteen days, the patients on average died. This fast dying group was only twenty percent of the sufferers. Most would be members of the middle group, who died much slower but died just the same. They might suffer for a month or more. This accounted for the next fifty percent of sufferers. The last twenty percent were worthy of study. If you stayed sick but did not die, did not progress in symptoms, you were watched closely.

Then there was a new class of patients. There was excitement when people noticed a few patients were showing signs of improvement. But every third person who did survive was still not clear. They stopped showing signs of the disease. But they were still highly infectious. These were now her patients and her problem.

As she signed the crematory notations for last night’s shift, she could hear the furnaces being started as their solar charges and cremation chambers reached their threshold temperatures.

She normally stood vigil as they disposed of the bodies, but after the first thousand, it became almost  unbearable, by the second, she wept inwardly, by the ten thousandth, she could no longer weep, her heart hardened by the horror of watching them die, consumed by a disease she knew but could no longer understand.

She watched from her desk over the CCD. She did not need to. It was her self-imposed penance.

Today was the anniversary of the discovery of the Sinai bacterium and today, she wanted to sit in her chair and forget. Forget Patient Zero. Forget the panic. Forget the riots. Forget the military. Forget martial law. Forget her husband and her children who died so early on. Forget the tens of thousands she herself personally euthanized to spare them their terrible fate.

She just wanted to forget.

Her secretary came into her office, out of breath. “Excuse me, doctor. There is a man downstairs at the main gate asking for you.”

“Did you ask him what he wanted?”

He asked me to give you something to you. It was a card in a beautiful hand written script written in Latin. Nex has adeo vestri urbs. EGO adeo praecipio vos Sit hic. “Death has come to your city. I come to warn you He is here.”

Her face paled as she sealed her suit at the neck, grabbed her white coat and ran past her secretary into her airlock.

She primped and checked her appearance as she rode the elevator to the first floor. It had been a while since she had cared what she looked like.

She slowed herself as she entered the main security region.  She could see his blue-black face even from this distance. He was wearing his trademark ornate shades of gold and a dark grey suit.

“Let him through, Captain.”

“I’m sorry ma’am but he is displaying signature irregularities indicating he may be sick.”

“I am authorizing his passage, Captain. I will take full responsibility.”

“Yes, ma’am. Let him through.”

His face was solemn, but his mouth had the hint of a smile. “Your eyes speak to me, Doctor Chaucer. They are filled with your suffering. You are now old enough to understand.”

Her eyes and face harden. She slaps him. He does not resist.

A few seconds later he hugs her. She does not resist.

They walk away toward the elevator, silently, closely but not touching. Everyone returns to looking busy, their questions internalized until the elevator closes.

It was within these walls, did Ben Szandros find himself; so very close to death from every side and yet in this moment, more alive than any other time in his short life.

The walls of Mount Sinai shudder.

House of Oak: Red Star, White Sun © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

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