The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (29 page)

“That’s right,” confirmed Rovinsky. “All hardware will be operated remotely from Virginia. But I don’t see your gadgets anywhere. Is everything running on time?”

“Oh yes.” Jim watched a brief smile touch Jason’s lips. “Everything’s running on time. But we’re still waiting for somebody, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Jim looked up and around. “I think I can hear the chopper. That should be the general.”

Rovinsky stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. It was windy up here on the hill, and the cold was starting to penetrate.

The sounds of rotors grew louder, then a large military helicopter was descending on the cliff not too far from the group, making them cover their faces from the powerful airflow.

A stocky gray-haired man stepped out of the chopper. He was wearing no insignia, but his heavy step and decisive moves betrayed someone in charge.

“General Hopkins,” he introduced himself to others, then grabbed Jim’s hand in a powerful, almost painful handshake. “It’s good to see you, Jim. But just for the record, I don’t like this lack of procedure, so it better be stellar.”

“Of course,” Jim said, smiling with confidence he wasn’t feeling. “Jason?”

“We’re ready whenever you are.”

Jim took out a pair of binoculars and dialed the satellite phone.

“We’re a go,” he said to the operator. “I repeat, we’re a go.”

He put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the field. The four M2s stood motionless at the bottom of the hill. Jim scanned to the right, trying to see what Jason had up his sleeve but all he could see was empty fields.

A loud crack pierced the air as one of the Abrams’ fired its main gun, then another, and another.

Jim peeked above the binoculars to see where the shots were landing, then put them back on. Fountains of dirt shot into the air where shells had hit, but Rovinsky couldn’t see anything.

“What are they shooting at?” shouted Hopkins, clearly having the same issue.

A bright flash came from the middle of the field, not too far from where the shells were landing, then three more in quick succession. Four missiles streaked through the gloomy skies toward the tanks.

Jim watched the countermeasures shot up like fireworks, trying to confuse the incoming missiles.

The hits were almost simultaneous, a loud rumbling noise of explosions echoing through the valley. Four burning carcasses stood where a few seconds ago were the most lethal land machines.

Now knowing where to look, Jim saw a transparent shadow running through the field at inhuman speed. The air around it was glowing the lightest shade of blue.

The machine gun on top of the hill started to sing, spitting out large caliber uranium-tipped bullets. Blue sparks started to fly from the running figure, making it now fully visible, but not slowing its pace. It reached the summit in less than ten seconds and gracefully hopped on top of the bunker. A loud explosion shook the hill and silenced the gun.

“Fuck me,” Jim said, putting his binoculars down.

“I’d say we captured the flag,” said Jason, turning to the group.

“I’d say you just earned yourself a contract, son,” said General Hopkins. “Good job, Jim.”

“Thank you, General,” he said feeling a little numb, then he turned to Jason. “What do you call this thing?”

A quick smile re-appeared on Jason’s lips.

“We call him Martin,” he said.

Mark Perlman was running late. Normally, when he had to cover an IPO of a new hot company, it meant a short trip to the Exchange floor, where he would rub elbows with the movers and the shakers, and once the chief executive rang the symbolic bell the party usually moved to a cozier location with champagne, good food and pretty women.

Today was the exception. “Orion R&D Group” new ticker symbol ORDG and its management had a different view on how to celebrate their IPO. They were giving a small press conference in Brooklyn, next to their warehouse in front of a couple of hundred employees.

The early snow and heavy traffic made the drive completely miserable, and when Mark finally parked his old Civic across the street from Orion’s warehouse, the clock on his dashboard read 9:05am. The stock market would be open in twenty-five minutes, and Orion’s CEO was known for being brief. Mark was sure that the speech was about to start any moment.

He showed his credentials to the guards by the main gate and jogged toward a crowded field in front of the main building. The smart glasses with built-in video transmitter were struggling to compensate for his jerky movements, but that was something he knew could be later fixed at the news studio.

Finally he made it closer to the platform and stopped trying to catch some breath. He got there just in time. The low chatter that surrounded him just a moment ago was replaced by cheers as the CEO stepped out of the building and climbed the steps to the podium.

Jason Hunt was a tall man. His hands were in his coat’s pockets but despite the brutal cold he wasn’t wearing a hat. The closely cropped dirty-blond hair and icy blue eyes made him appear stern, almost military. He stopped by a microphone and looked at the crowd. Cheering continued for some time, and Hunt patiently waited until the most enthusiastic supporters quieted down. Finally, he cleared his throat and, leaning towards the microphone, began in a low quiet voice:

“Today is a good day. No, I don’t think it’s a good day because our company is going to be publicly traded on the biggest stock exchange in the world.

“My advisers are telling me that we’re poised to become the second biggest company in this space, but this is not what’s going to make this day important either. A few years ago, although it seems that it was just yesterday, I questioned somebody on the importance of this work.

“I thought of human augmentation as plastic surgery, a lot of expensive research for all the wrong reasons. I was wrong.”

He paused and put his gloved hands on the podium.

“I was wrong. This work is what’s going to save this civilization. This is the ultimate answer. This is what we’ve been searching for, for such a long time.”

Hunt leaned forward even more as if trying to make sure that his every word was understood. His voice grew stronger and carried across the field.

“Today is not about just another tech IPO. Today is not about another bunch of geeks becoming billionaires.

“Today is about you. All of you. It’s about mothers who can’t sleep at night because their kids are dying from cancer. It’s about grown-up children whose parents are withering of old age.

Today is about sisters and brothers, friends and neighbors, who can take the first step to a better future.

“Today is about hope. Today, is about a promise that one day we can come together as a species and say that we’ve conquered the biggest enemy of them all. The enemy that took away every living soul from the beginning of time.

“Today, I’m giving you the path to that future, the way to fulfill this promise.” Jason took a glove off his right hand and lifted a bunched fist high into the air.

“The promise of immortality!”

Under the cold November sun his hand was glistening metallic gray, and snowflakes were falling on its smooth surface without melting.

•     •     •

Jason stepped off the podium and briskly walked back to the building. The last thing he wanted to do was speak to the reporters.

“It’s quite a speech,” said Mike Connelly, catching up to him. “Quite a promise, too.”

“I know,” he said as they stepped into the elevator. “Are we going to be ready for tomorrow?”

“I believe so,” said Mike. “Last time I spoke to Poznyak, they were running last minute tests.”

The elevator stopped and they stepped out.

“I’ll wait here,” Mike said to him, “if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure.” He patted the man on the shoulder. “I’ll be right out.”

He stepped through the airlock and entered the clean room. First he removed every article of clothing, then put on a white bio suit. The helmet came last.

Once he was ready, he went through the second airlock and entered a large brightly lit room. A long white table was installed in the middle, completely covered by the transparent protective casing. He came closer, put his hands on the casing, and looked in.

A nude female body was resting on the smooth surface, a cluster of wires snaking away from her and under the table. A wave of jet-black hair framed her head.

Jason walked around the table, his human hand never leaving the transparent plastic. He stopped next to her head, looking at the face. She looked peaceful, as if she were asleep.

“We’re close,” he said out loud. “We’re almost there. The blueprint has been completed. We’ll start building the machine tomorrow.”

He tapped on the clear plastic and left the room without looking back.

“Are you okay?” Mike said as he stepped out of the airlock.

“Never better,” he said. “We just have to make it happen.”

His phone implant rang.

“Hello?”

“I found them,” said a man’s voice.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Tonight Johnny the Butcher is meeting a new supplier.” The man gave him an address in the southern Bronx.

“Great, thank you.”

“Something else,” the man continued.

“Yeah?”

“Victor Ye is going to be there. Chuck thinks they’ll be alone, or with a limited entourage. I’d say it’s a real opportunity if you decide to go for it. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Latham,” he said and closed the line.

“I know this look,” said Mike, watching him. “I’ll go with you.”

“I can handle myself,” he answered, “but thank you.”

“I’m serious,” Connelly insisted.

“I know you are,” he said and smiled, “but this is something I have to do myself.”

“I’ll drive you then,” Mike said, “drop you off and pick you up, that’s all.”

“That’s fine,” said Jason. He turned around and started walking. It was going to be a long day and probably even a longer night.

The time had come to pay some old debts.

THE END

I once listened to an interview with Stephen King. Someone from the audience asked him if he’d carried around a pad to write down ideas. I don’t remember his exact words, but I think he called it
a great way to write down crap.
In his opinion all good ideas stuck and didn’t require external devices to get committed to memory. This is how
THE BLUEPRINT
was born. The idea grew and grew until it took a permanent residence in my brain and I had no other choice, but to write it down. But it wouldn’t be possible without the encouragement and help of many people along the way. My earnest thanks to:

David Longshore, a wordsmith like no other, who gave me just the right mix of uplifting praise and soul-crushing reality checks, but most important kept telling me to keep on writing.

Mike Alamo, a dear friend, who discussed the craziest topics with me during our lunch breaks, ranging from immortality to the ability to discover aliens.

Mike Garrett, Stephen King’s first editor, whose edits and suggestions taught me more in a few weeks than I would’ve learned on my own in years.

Jeroen ten Berge, the creative power behind the wonderful cover design.

And finally, the two most important people in my life: my wife, and my son. Without you nothing would ever make sense.