Alex Bobl - Memoria

Dickens held Maggie by the neck pressing her against himself. The fingers of one hand deformed and dislocated, he held a gun in his other hand pointing it at the girl’s temple. Barney stood nearby, his arms hanging down, his head turned to Frank. His bruised face was covered with some fresh blood.

“Kill him,” Dickens ordered.

Barney trundled toward Frank.

Agent Archer radioed Jessup when his helicopter passed over the Harlem’s sleeping waters. According to Archer, Claney had avoided arrest in the Town Hall by swapping bracelets with his secretary.

“I told you so,” Jessup rearranged his headphones. “You shouldn’t have fallen for that. Claney’s sensed we’re after him. He’ll try to leave New York now.”

“We control all outgoing traffic.”

“He knows everyone everywhere. Bet someone’s helping him to get out of town right now.”

“Jessup? Where are you?”

“Approaching Central Park. Will soon be in view of Memoria tower.

“How’s it going there?”

“Our assault group has taken the ground floor. There are casualties. Memoria’s security force have put up a fierce resistance. Taking it might take time.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Find Claney. Use all your men available.”

“Will do.”

“Over.”

Jessup looked straight ahead where Memoria’s tower studded the Manhattan skyline with lights. Somewhere there was the transmitter. Its signal would turn thousands of people into zombified soldiers. The Captain raised his face to the stars and tried to discern amid their pale glow the bright dots of army satellites on their city-bound geostationary orbits. In outer space overhead, their mirrors were now turning, ready to receive Memoria’s signal and bounce it back to the electronic bracelets of all the “vaccinated” people. Vaccinated with a mnemocapsule which contained the mind lock. Once activated, the mind lock would block their will and critical thinking. A program would then decompress itself forcing its host to follow the installed procedure and obey external orders. The bracelet would start to receive and transmit information creating a weak electromagnetic field which in turn would ensure that the host’s mind and body remained an obedient tool in the puppeteer’s hands.

All this was on the tape Jessup had got from the dying Floyd. And not only that. In the end, Kathleen Baker addressed the nation. She accused Claney of his crimes and spoke of her father. She didn’t want his and her invention to become a money-making machine detrimental to humankind. She insisted that everyone had the right to make use of their own skills and talents.

Agent Archer had seen the tape, too, and offered to find and arrest Claney. Jessup had his hands full with Memoria. He still had to negotiate with the migrants who’d already cut off the city’s energy supplies. The corporation, though, had to have their own energy reserves. Manhattan had submerged into darkness, pierced by the sparkling needle of Memoria’s tower.

A new countdown started ticking in Jessup’s head. This time though it wasn’t about the investigation, nor his dismissal even. Now time itself was the issue, and he knew he might not make it. Claney had to have strong supporters in the Pentagon. He had to have the military on his side to use a whole cluster of satellites for his project.

Claney must have started plotting this conspiracy a long time ago. It entangled many politicians, generals and scientists that Jessup had no desire of getting involved with. It was the Feds’ job, let them do it. As it was, the national security and secret service couldn’t react in time. By the time they kicked in, Claney and his generals would have done it. Their obedient soldiers would raze camps to the ground. Could be thousands of casualties, could be more. That meant war. That meant havoc. In the mayhem, no one would seek answers and the puppeteer would keep pulling the strings while he had the chance, making even more new fighters.

“Turn the beam on,” Jessup told the pilot. A powerful shaft of light sliced the darkness in front of the chopper. “What’s the ETA on our objective?”

“Three minutes, sir,” the headphones answered.

Jessup looked around at four special-forces men behind his back and showed three fingers to their officer. He nodded. The sniper put the encased rifle onto his lap to take it out.

Frank didn’t move, hoping that Barney would turn around and lunge at Dickens who’d raised his gun toward the stairs. But the boxer kept walking to the edge of the landing pad. His one remaining eye glistened. He didn’t seem to feel pain in his injured leg. He didn’t seem to notice Maggie — a hostage in Dickens’ grasp.

He kept walking.

“Barney, wait!” Frank shouted.

The boxer kept going. His wide shoulders blocked out Dickens and the girl who’d moved to the platform’s center.

“Wait!” Frank took a better grip of the axe, its blade facing the boxer. “It’s me, Frank Shelby! Remember?”

The boxer now behaved similarly to how he had when they’d found him in the lab. There, he’d been strange too, until they unplugged all the machines and pulled out all the cables. He’d spoken as if he was under hypnosis. After that, some sick kind of split personality disorder must have kicked in. The boxer had punched Frank in the shoulder and stared at his own hand, looking surprised. He’d recognized Maggie and even tried to get off the bed, but winced and sat back, grasping his wounded leg.

Now he kept walking.

Frank climbed the steps toward him.

“Dad!” Maggie screamed behind his back.

A deadbolt clanged, metal against metal. Frank craned his neck to see Dickens better.

The girl wasn’t on the platform. Dickens was climbing down into an open hatch.

The boxer kept walking. Three more steps, and Frank would be within his reach.

Frank lunged forward, turning the axe handle up, and used it to poke the boxer’s chest.

In a smooth and well-practiced motion, Barney avoided the blow and grabbed Frank’s arm. His other hand slapped Frank against the face, knocking him down.

Frank hit the platform edge, hurting his back and nearly falling off onto the roof from a height of four meters. He was lucky the edges curled inwards. Frank rolled over, avoiding the boxer’s kick, jumped up and bolted for the open hatch. Barney lunged forward blocking his way.

Now Frank could see the landing site for what it truly was. The platform was the satellite dish; the room below, the transmitter. Dickens had gone down to activate it.

“Barney, they’ve been messing with your head! They—”

The boxer didn’t let him finish. He advanced, raising his hands as he walked. Frank turned the axe blade forward hoping it would discourage him for a second giving him a chance to explain. As he walked, Barney threw one arm forward and grabbed the axe handle. Frank blocked his other hand, forcing his elbow into the boxer’s chest. He let go of the handle and jumped aside.

He couldn’t possibly overcome Barney in a hand-to-hand. He could also see that words failed to bring him out of his trance. Somehow he kept following Dickens’ orders. When the transmitter started working, millions of people would be like Barney, puppets in Claney’s hands.

Frank hurried to the hatch and collapsed, his feet giving way, his mind blinded by the pain and the fear that Barney had used the blade. He sat up and looked at his feet. Both were still there. He looked up and dodged as the blade whizzed through the air.

The axe sunk into the mesh, striking sparks, and bounced back over Barney’s head. The only eye on his mask-like face glistened. He clenched his bloodied teeth and drew in air, lowering his swing, when fear and desperation flashed in his glare. Barney shuddered, burying the blade in the platform next to Frank’s feet. Then he brought his knee up under Frank’s chin, throwing him onto his back.