David Simpson - Post-Human Trilogy

Aldous had just reached the densely populated center of the city and not a moment too soon. The sun, weak as it was, was beginning to threaten the flat prairie horizon line. As dilapidated as the makeshift city was, sunlight dramatically increased the effectiveness of facial recognition and he knew there were bound to be military cameras spattered across the ten blocks that made up the bulk of the habited zone. One camera would be all it would take—he needed to get out of the open—now.

He pulled the Jeep to the crumbling curb at the edge of the street and hopped out of the vehicle, his feet immediately becoming soaked by the frigid water that pooled ubiquitously on what was left of the pavement. He splashed through the water, jogging toward a large concrete building that appeared to have been built before the war. Although its outer shell had certainly seen better days, incased in ice that had clumps of debris frozen within it, likely from a rainstorm during the initial days of the fallout, the building seemed to have held up better than any other structure in the city. Aldous’s eyes fell on a makeshift street sign that bore the name of the street; a crude wooden plank with “7 thAve.” scrolled in silver spray paint.

Pulling the collar of his black jacket up and holding his hand over his mouth as though he were stifling a cough, he entered the building and was surprised by what he saw. The interior was clean, showing only minor damage as a sign that it had been through World War III. Aldous felt as though he’d stepped back in time—a time before the war, when the illusion that humans were a civil species still reigned. Concrete and glass, the interior was designed to be aesthetically pleasing and an escalator in the lobby stretched up to the third floor; amazingly, the old relic still worked.

Aldous stepped onto the escalator, keeping his hand over his mouth to confuse any facial recognition programs that might capture his image as he made his way up. It was still early in the morning, and the businesses within the complex weren’t likely to open for a couple more hours. When he reached the top floor, he walked toward the entrance to an optometrist’s office. He turned when he noticed something on the far wall, a rehabilitation clinic specializing in prosthetics for workers injured working in the oil fields. He sighed and put his back to the glass, letting his exhausted legs finally rest as he slid down to a seated position.

“Sam,” he said to his wife over his mind’s eye as she continued to be tortured, “hang on, darling. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig lifted off from the deck of the Titanic and flew forward to the bow of the ship. Almost immediately, the iceberg came into view. “A little help?”

“You’ll have to guide me, Craig,” the A.I. said. “I still have not established a link to your optics.”

“ Titanic’s headed straight for the iceberg, not turning. Looks like it needs to turn to the port side to miss. Can we use our power to help with the turn?”

“I’d advise against it,” the A.I. replied calmly. “First officer William Murdoch will attempt a port-around maneuver, but because he will try to reverse the engines, there will be a delay of thirty seconds, and the deceleration will cause the ship rudder to be far less effective.”

“Isn’t that exactly why we should help push the bow to the port?” Craig asked, baffled as he flew to the starboard side of the ship and prepared to generate a field that would nudge the ship to the port side.

“It would almost certainly fail. Although you might get the ship to turn more quickly, sparing the front of the starboard side from the collision, the aft side would likely connect, causing the same level of damage.”

The iceberg was only seconds away now, with Titanic heading straight for it.

“Then I need an alternative!”

“I suggest preventing Titanic from turning to port,” the A.I. said coolly.

“What? Why?”

“Contrary to popular belief, the Titanic was actually an extraordinarily sturdy ship, as evidenced by her sister ship, the Olympic . She served for twenty-five years, surviving several major collisions. She even rammed and sank a U-boat, U-103 , with her bow. The collision twisted the hull plates on the starboard side, but the hull’s integrity remained intact.”

“Okay!” Craig shouted as he flew over the deck, a small group of mesmerized crew members watching his uncanny aerial display as he did so. He positioned himself on the port side of the Titanic , near the bow. “I’m on the port side! What do I do?”

“Allow me,” the A.I. replied as he triggered the green energy, causing it to emanate once again from within Craig. The green aura became a wall of magnetic energy that cradled the side of the ship and shone so brightly that it bathed the expanse of the Titanic , as well as that of the iceberg, in a green glow.

Finally, the bow of the ship began to turn to the port side, but it almost immediately came into contact with the green wall that the A.I. had thrown up in opposition. The ship actually collided with the energy, bouncing off of it and angling to the starboard side, setting itself on a direct collision course with the iceberg.

“It’s working,” Craig said breathlessly. “I hope you’re right about this.”

“Me too,” the A.I. replied.

“What? You mean you’re not absolutely certain?”

“ It’s only a theory, ” the A.I. replied, a hint of indignation in his voice. “I calculate that this will have a seventy-nine percent chance of being successful. It has the best chance among all alternatives.”

“Oh Jesus,” Craig whispered as he watched the ship, now only meters from the collision.

Colonel Paine reentered the square concrete room that now served as an interrogation room. He had Sanha in tow. As he had earlier, he tossed Sanha roughly to the ground.

O’Brien saluted as soon as he saw his commanding officer.

Paine saluted in return before gesturing with his sharp, knife-like thumb for O’Brien to leave. O’Brien nodded and exited.

Samantha’s face remained covered by the sopping wet cloth. Her mouth was opened into a wide circle as she desperately struggled to steal as much oxygen through the suffocating membrane of the cloth as she could. With the spray of water now stopped, it was possible for trace amounts of air to pass through the barrier of the cloth, albeit not enough for her to survive.

Paine watched the cloth suck down into her mouth as she desperately tried to breathe. The spectacle reminded him of fishing as a child with his father—the slow suffocation of their impending dinner on the dry plats of their rowboat coming to mind. Paine had always watched suffocation with fascination. Watching a life end was something that he had witnessed countless times since—the fascination had not abated.

As Samantha began violently shaking her head back and forth in a vain attempt to shake the cloth off of her face, Paine reached out with his clawed hand and removed the obstruction. Just as before, Samantha inhaled painfully, taking almost half a minute to regain her ability to control her breathing.

“Hello again,” Paine finally said as he watched Samantha panting.

“Why…why are you torturing me?”

Paine contorted his face into an ugly expression. “Torture? This isn’t torture. You’ve never seen torture.”

Samantha’s heart suddenly chilled more than she could have ever previously imagined. “But…but, you’re not asking questions,” she protested as she struggled to speak through her gasps.

“That’s because you’re a zealot, Professor Emilson. Oh wait, I forgot. It’s Gibson now, isn’t it?” Paine slipped the cigar out of his mouth, the end of it nearly chewed to bits, and spat on the ground. “You ever wonder why we adopted water-boarding as an interrogation technique?”