Reflexive Fire - 01 (34 page)

   Day Thirty would mark the end of Phase One, the population sufficiently reduced and the beginning of their great authoritarian society.

   Some of the old cities would be restored, but mostly new cities with entirely new methods of architecture and advanced technology would rise from the ashes.  What was left of the public would be forced into crowded city states, travel restricted to the elite and their servants.  Super highways would connect some of the megacities; others would be placed in the center of jungles or tundra, and only accessible by tilt rotor aircraft.  

   Cities would divide the pruned population by age and work group.  Children would be raised in massive communes to insure emotional sterility.  Their minds would be dulled by mass education, encouraged to believe that everyone is the property of everyone else, and promiscuity and petty entertainment would replace so-called human values.  

   The serfs would live and work together in large labor groups.  Shuffling to and from the factories, they would serve the barons who oversaw the city-states, their overlords.  Each worker would be tagged with a subdermal RFID chip that controlled what resources they had access to and when.

   The new scientific dictatorship would use the RFID chips to channel the workers into a cashless society that would work for virtual currency.  Like the monetary system of one of today's video games, the public would never see actual currency or hard assets.  Credits would be assigned to each user's RFID chip, to be redeemed for basic provisions and methods of entertainment at the city canteen.

   The scourge of private property would finally be abolished; babies would be born when authorized, with millions of dollars of virtual debt hanging over their heads.  The population would be permanent indentured servants, trained to love the very servitude that enslaved them.

   Pervasive throughout the new city-states would be a panopticon of technical surveillance features.  Millions of cameras would be placed on the streets, in places of employment, even in the barracks where the workers lived.  Microphones would be planted everywhere, supercomputers monitoring every conversation for key words, hints of threats that needed to be silenced.

   Biometric scanners would be ubiquitous, so common that the worker bees would soon grow jaded to their very presence.  Fingerprint and iris scanners would be used for identification everywhere they went.  Other scanners would function on computer programs connected to the spider web of cameras that would measure each person's gait and mannerisms.  Other systems would measure the pattern of veins in a worker's hand or arm for more advanced forms of control.

   Brain scanners would be set up at key choke points such as subways and bus stations.  The second generation Functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging devices would measure actual brain waves and signatures, literally reading people's thoughts.  Third generation devices would be hand held.

   Such crude behavior modification would be necessary only until several generations of children, genetically engineered to be servile and impotent, were brought online.  Afterward, any remaining survivors from Day Zero would be culled as well.  With new technologies in hydroponics, aquaponics, and alternative energy, like cold fusion, brought to the forefront, automation would increase exponentially, the need for human capital reduced once again.

   The elite would be protected by private armies, of course, but the public needed tending to as well.

   With the population herded into strategic hamlets, they would now be administered by teams of experts, mid-level minions who would, in return for their services, be granted access to a slightly higher quality canteen for material goods.

   Mobile sterilization teams would scour the city-states for unauthorized pregnancies.  The teams would be manned by a representative from the central authority, two program officers from the city itself, two junior officers, and a small support staff.  After the first round of forced sterilizations, the number of mandatory abortions necessary would decline dramatically, but the situation would still be closely watched.

   Armed enforcers would be omnipresent.  Armored thugs would tote a variety of non-lethal weapons designed to inflict maximum pain compliance.  Long range tasers would shock resistors at distance, firing along energized ion trails, and sonic resonance systems would lull them to sleep.  Eventually, malcontents would be taken for rehabilitation or destruction, depending on the severity of the offense.

   The watchers at the city-state level would of course be watched by high level commandos deployed by the true architecture of power.  The hunter/killer teams would be armed with Tier One technology, constantly on standby to lead sharp point operations that would crush anything that looked at the power brokers the wrong way.  Mostly, they would be deployed to keep the low level barons in line.

   It was expected that The Council's top-level assassins would compete for the chance to lead the elite teams.  Kammler had called him just hours before his speech to give him an update about Burma.  Peng was eliminated as expected.  O'Brien had once again surpassed expectations, his ruthlessness ensuring that he had a place on the H/K teams. 

   However, there were many fail-safes, a virtual division of power to guarantee The Council's grasp on power and absolute control.  Artificial intelligence systems would create a simulation of every system on the planet, creating a separate node for each individual with cognitive profiles gathered from surveillance systems and in-depth screening.  The supercomputer would predict events before they happened, giving forewarning to the elite.  Troublemakers would be rounded up before the thought of trouble even occurred to them.

   It was called Project Leviathan.  Its sentient intelligence would compute numbers into infinity in the blink of an eye.  Predictive programming, precognition, and more were all possible.  Human beings would be reduced to biological androids, not a moment of their lives left unplanned or unscripted.

   Jarogniew was brought back to the present as the limousine came to a halt in front of the United Nations building.  He had several more meetings scheduled for the day.  Much more work to do before Day Zero.

   The Council of Three controlled the past, present, and future.

   Their great work was the alchemy for total control.

Twenty Six

   Deckard walked to the entrance, automatic doors parting to allow him through.

   Astana's brand new hospital was getting broken in the hard way, the casualties of war coming in on stretchers.  Others were getting wheeled into a separate area with white sheets covering still bodies.  Nick was shouting at doctors and nurses, twin veins in his neck stretching like garden hoses as anger took hold. 

   It had been a long plane ride home, the longest of Deckard's life, sitting alongside the body bags.  They had finally touched down in Kazakhstan an hour ago.  Most of the troops were on their way back to the compound to hit the newly installed showers and then rack out in the bunks.

   As the chaos swirled around him in the emergency area's waiting room he felt it again, the crushing feeling that hung over his head.  He had never lied to himself about who he was or what he did.  Deckard liked war, loved it occasionally.  Combat was the only time he ever saw people for who they truly were, a place where anyone can be a hero or a coward, or both at the same time.  War was the only time you saw the world for what
it
really was.

   With societal constructs removed, the truth became apparent, obvious even.  Compared to war, any other job was just punching a time card.

   He intrinsically understood that the mercenaries he commanded were grown men who had made their own decision, freely and with full knowledge of potential consequences.  They hedged their bets because the pay was good, or signed up looking for some action after their military career.  When you play big boy games you play by big boy rules, and any one of them could have been the guy coming home as a corpse.

   For some reason, this time that notion didn't make him feel any better.

   “Mr. O'Brien?”

   Snapping out of it, he realized he was supposed to respond to that name.  Deckard turned around.  A balding man wearing a suit and tie was standing in his way, peering at him through thick rectangular glasses.

   “Yeah,” Deckard said, his hand inching towards the Glock 19 strapped to his hip.

   “Your benefactors have sent me to speak with you.”

   “Regarding?”

   “Just a job interview.”

   “Not happy with my performance?”

   “Not at all, but this is a different kind of job they have in mind,” the suit replied.  “Now, please follow me.”

   Glancing across the lobby, Deckard could see Nick pushing a doctor aside and treating one of the Kazakhs himself.  He was in charge here, no doubt about it.

   “Adam,” he said into his radio.  “I'm going to need a few minutes.  Personal business.”

   “You okay?” his new second in command asked.

   “Yeah, I'm cool.”

   Adam was still outside, helping to unload casualties from one of the trucks.

   “But I'm going offline for a few.”

   “Got it.”

   Deckard was dealing with the type of people who were not used to refusals.  He was in too deep to turn away now.  Besides, one well-dressed prick was hardly a threat.

   “This way,” the man said, adjusting his glasses.

   Leaving the scene in the emergency room behind, Deckard was led down the long, empty halls, the sharp stench of sterilizers used by the cleaners stinging his nose.  Cutting around a corner, they climbed a set of metal steps to the second floor.  The halls were completely silent, abandoned.

   Following colored lines painted on the floor, the suited man continued to lead him through a maze of corridors.

   “What is this all about?” Deckard finally asked, looking around suspiciously.

   “As I said,” the mystery man droned.  “Just an interview.”

   They walked through another set of automatic doors, Deckard's eyes frozen on the words above the entrance:
Department of Neurology
.

   Footsteps rounded the corner behind them, the commando turning to see a trio of trigger men striding up from behind.  Middle Eastern looking, wearing bootleg American clothing with knock off sunglasses perched on top of their heads.  MP-5 sub-machine guns rested comfortably in their hands.  He studied them carefully with just a glance, and they eyeballed him right back.

   Hezbollah by the looks of them, flown in from Lebanon.  Hopefully, they didn't recognize him. Deckard grimaced, knowing that he was none too popular in that part of the world.

   Three more terrorists walked from a side room and took position to their front, effectively boxing them in.  There was no turning back now.

   Deeper into the empty hospital wing they crossed the final threshold, Deckard realizing what was happening with a shock.  The placard on the door announced that they were entering the fMRI clinic.  He had never been through the process himself, but had heard the stories about psychological torture sessions carried out on high level NSA and CIA officials.

   The Islamic fundamentalists waited outside, standing guard, while Deckard and the suit went into the changing room.  Lockers lined the walls, a hospital gown already laid out for him.

   “The fMRI emits a magnetic resonance thirty thousand times stronger than the pull of gravity,” the mystery man stated.  “It is required that you get changed and leave behind all metallic objects.  Walk through that door as soon as you are finished and we will get started.”

   “What about the shrapnel in my leg?”

   “What shrapnel?”

   “A souvenir from Burkina Faso a few years ago.  Won't the MRI yank it out?”

   “Probably.  Luckily for you, we are in a hospital.  We have people on staff who can attend to you if it rips out a vein or artery.”

  
Ouch.  Sounds painful.

  
“Please hurry, Mr. O'Brien.  We have people waiting and our time is valuable as I'm sure is yours.”

   The suit exited the changing room, the door sliding shut with a click, leaving him alone under humming fluorescent lights.

   Cursing, Deckard took his AK-103 off its sling and set it down.  The rifle was filthy with mud but had held up just fine when he needed it.  Next, he pulled the Glock out of its holster to lay it down next to the rifle.  It was also thick with carbon and covered in dirt, yet no one had complained about the handgun's performance.

   Shrugging out of his combat rig, Deckard laid it on the floor as well.  The AK magazines in it were empty; the pouches that had held fragmentation grenades were hanging with loose flaps, empty as well.  The cylinder shaped pouch that had held a thermite grenade was hanging open too.  He had used the red colored device that had been inside to burn Peng's mansion to the ground.

   Still other pouches held a water bladder, pistol magazines, sheathed combat knife, escape and evasion gear, a handheld GPS system, garrote wire, night vision monocular, and other tools of the trade. 

   Dumping his gear he did a quick circuit, opening the locker doors and finding nothing inside.  Two were locked.  Squatting down he unzipped the main compartment on his combat rig and retrieved his lock pick set.  Going to work on the locked door, he placed the tension wrench in the lock and applied light pressure while flicking the tumblers with a raking tool.

   Deckard knew he had to work fast.

   The tension wrench turned, the lock opening.  Inside were a pair of slippers and a white lab coat hanging on a hook.  Rifling through the pockets he turned up nothing but lint and a ballpoint pen.

   Peeling off his fatigue jacket, he cast it aside, where it landed with a plop in the corner of the room.  The sweat and grime was setting in with the stench of rotting food.

   Going to work on the next lock, he held his breath, hoping to find what he was looking for.

   He was nearing the drone zone.  Awake for nearly three days straight, the former soldier was having trouble concentrating.  The bright overhead lights seemed to pierce his skull, his recall fading, making everything more difficult.  The simple five pin lock would have been child's play under any other circumstance, but now he was struggling just to apply the correct level of pressure on the metal tools in his hands.

   Looking over his shoulder, he expected the goon squad to rush in at any moment, forcefully dragging him out, and holding him down while the MRI scanned his brain.

   Finally, the lock popped open.  Flinging the door open, Deckard tore through the clothes he found inside before his eyes froze on a bottle resting on the top shelf.  Snatching it in his hand, he looked at the label on the pill bottle.

  
Bingo.

   “Mr. O'Brien.”  The suit pushed open the door irritably.  “Please, we don't have all day.”

   Deckard was just finishing tying the drawstring on his medical gown.

   “Sorry about that,” he replied with a nervous smile.  “I smell like death warmed over.”

   “This way, please,” his new handler responded flatly while holding the door open for him.

   “Thanks,” Deckard grumbled as he passed by.

   Immediately his eyes went to the doublesided mirror that stretched across the far wall.  Quickly shifting his gaze to the fMRI machine that took up most of the room, he walked towards it.  Swallowing hard, he was pretty sure he was screwed.  Although he wasn't a doctor, he could read the label on the side of the machine.

   It was a Siemens 3T Magnetom.  He might not be familiar with the specific machine, but he did know that 3T stood for three Teslas, a unit of measurement that indicated that this was the most advanced type of model available, offering the highest resolution brain scans.

  
Nowhere to hide.  Not even in your own mind.

  
“Please lay down on the table now.”

   Deckard sat down on the cold slab hesitantly.

   The functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging device worked by measuring the blood oxygen level dependence, or BOLD level in the human brain.  Stimulation would cause the blood flow in the brain the change.  Certain neural pathways would be activated, and the neural cells themselves would demand more glucose to consume, increasing the blood flow to that portion of the brain.

   The 3T Magnetom would create an extremely powerful magnetic field that would measure the inner working of the mind based on BOLD levels and show a three-dimensional model of Deckard's brain on a computer monitor.  As stimulus was provided, experts could analyze which parts of his brain were active and when.

   The thought of a high tech mind fuck disgusted him, but it was too late, with too much at stake to blow it now.  He'd do his best to spoof the system.  If that didn't work, all he had at his disposal was a small fiberglass knife hidden in his sock.  Not only were they reading his mind but had also found a way to make sure he was disarmed, all of his hidden party favors left with his fatigues and combat equipment with no metal allowed in the room.

   Once he was lying down, the suit came up beside him and fastened several straps around his face to prevent Deckard from moving and throwing off their readings.

   “Very good,” the spectacle-wearing man commented almost to himself.

   Sliding the slab forward on its rollers, Deckard's head was now inside the machine as it hummed  steadily, someone on the other side of the mirror starting it up.

   “Try to relax, this should only take an hour or so.”

   “Fucking hell!” Deckard screamed as several small metal fragments were torn from his calf muscle, ripping flesh before sticking to the side of the fMRI machine.

   The suit calmly walked out and returned with heavy bandages.

   “I'm sealing your wounds with medical glue.  Keep an eye on it over the next few days.  We don't want you getting an infection.”

   “You're all heart, thanks.”

   The door slammed shut leaving him alone.  The half dozen Arabs who stood guard outside were probably confiscating his equipment in case things went bad.

   Suddenly the speaker system came to life, the suit's calming voice speaking in his ear.

   “Your name is Jake O'Brien.”