David Simpson - Post-Human Trilogy

“Tell them the truth. You’re former U.S. Air Force Special Forces.”

“Can’t you tell them? I don’t know all the details. It’s been a while since I’ve read a history book.”

“I’m just a voice in your head, Craig. I can connect the call, but I can’t talk to them. I’ll prompt you. Don’t worry.”

“What if they don’t believe me?”

“That won’t be a problem. Tell them you’re on your way and there’s about to be an incident—a major incident.”

“We are twenty seconds out,” the A.I. informed Craig as they slowed their approach to the airport. “I’ve already examined the schematics of the airport. Flight 11 boarded at Gate B32. We’ll be entering through the window.”

“Through the window? You mean crashing through?”

“Yes, and in rather dramatic fashion, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine with me,” Craig growled, his upper lip curling atavistically.

“The pictures of each hijacker have been uploaded into your facial recognition. They board at different times, but all five men will be at the gate. We can knock each of them unconscious automatically with an energy blast—”

“Not happening,” Craig replied.

“Why not?”

The window was now visible as the A.I. guided Craig toward it.

“Because these guys need to feel some discomfort.”

A second later, the brilliant green cocoon smashed through the floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to Gate B32. It was 7:35, and Mohamed Atta and Abdulaziz al-Omari were next in line to board Flight 11.

As he stood to his feet, Craig’s mind’s eye immediately locked onto the two targets, as well as the other three hijackers who remained at their seats—though, like everyone else, they’d gotten down on the ground to protect themselves.

Atta stood, ticket in hand. He was dressed in a blue dress shirt and dark dress pants with a black bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes were wild with surprise, and they quickly darted in the direction of his companions. He remained frozen, hoping the bizarre figure who’d smashed through the glass was not there for him and that they would remain undetected. When Craig’s eyes met his, he and the others turned to run.

“I have them,” the A.I. said as he flashed energy in the direction of four of the five hijackers.

All four of them went limp and dropped to the ground instantly—all except for Atta, who continued to run, not stopping to check on his companions.

Craig lifted off into the air, and a young girl screamed as Craig landed in front of his prey. “I know who you are,” Craig seethed.

Atta’s eyes were stretched with fear as Craig moved in. He reached into his bag, retrieving his box cutter and holding it threateningly. “Stay back!”

Craig smiled. “Just try it, son.”

Atta backpedaled and swiped wildly in the air in front of him to keep Craig at bay.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Craig?” the A.I. asked, his voice analytical more than emotional, once again reminding Craig of a psychiatrist.

“This is something you just can’t understand,” Craig replied as he lunged forward, reaching for Atta’s throat with both hands outstretched. He grasped it, but Atta stabbed with his weapon, the blade of the box cutter sinking into the middle of Craig’s throat. As blood jetted from the wound, Craig grasped the wrist of the hand that held the box cutter and squeezed hard with his powerful grip, causing Atta to drop the weapon. With his right hand, Craig continued to squeeze Atta’s throat, his thumb digging hard into the man’s Adam’s apple. Atta grabbed Craig’s wrist with his left hand, hoping to lessen Craig’s grip and avoid having his trachea crushed.

“This is reckless, Craig,” the A.I. observed. “If you were not a post-human, the wound to your neck would be fatal.”

Craig couldn’t reply; though his nans were hard at work, repairing the damage to his throat, the bleeding still hadn’t completely stopped, and he was having difficulty breathing. It didn’t matter, however. As far as he was concerned, there was no way he was going to lose a fight to a fiend like Atta.

“Watch out, Craig,” the A.I. warned. “You have not secured his left hand, and once he realizes that he can’t prevent you from crushing his throat, he will inevitably attempt to knock you unconscious with a corkscrew left to your temple.”

Craig knew the A.I. was probably right; that would be Craig’s next move if he were in Atta’s shoes. Preemptively, Craig released his grip on Atta’s throat and used his right hand to secure Atta’s left, and then swiftly head-butted the would-be hijacker in the nose, breaking it. Atta stumbled back, and Craig swept out his legs with a sweeper kick of his own, knocking Atta flat on his back.

Once the fight was on the ground, it was over. Craig mounted Atta’s chest and began leveling devastating blows against Atta’s face. His goal was not to knock the man unconscious with hard shots to the jaw, throat, or temple. His goal was to cause pain. The man under him was a murderer—a would-be mass murderer of thousands. He’d wrapped himself in a delusion, convinced himself that it was okay to murder for a greater good. Craig was tired of self-righteous scum like him. Atta deserved no sympathy.

“Craig,” the A.I. said as he watched the destruction of the man’s face below, “you’ll kill him if you continue.”

“That’s the idea,” Craig replied, his voice hoarse, unrecognizable even to himself.

“I thought your primary purpose was to protect life—not to take it.”

“I’ve killed before,” Craig answered. “I’ve never enjoyed it. Not until now.”

“This is not a path I believe you should follow, Craig.”

“What would you know? You don’t even have emotions.”

“I do have emotions,” the A.I. asserted. “I just haven’t developed an emotional intelligence that passes the Turing test.”

“Well, talk to me when you do,” Craig replied as he continued leveling blows on the face of the now unconscious Atta. “I’m no orthodontist, but I think if I really concentrate, I can knock out every one of his teeth individually.”

“Craig,” the A.I. said.

“Leave me alone, I said. Free will. Remember?”

“Craig!” the A.I. suddenly shouted with enough urgency that it jolted Craig free from his bloodlust.

“What?” he asked as he straightened his back.

“The television in the corner! At your eleven o’clock high!”

Craig looked up to see an old television set mounted on a bracket in the corner of the room. The news was playing. “No,” Craig whispered when he saw the news report on the screen. The Twin Towers were there, black smoke billowing from each, an image that seemed all too familiar. “How can this be? We stopped them before they boarded!”

The A.I. didn’t need to answer. The news cameras on a nearby helicopter had captured live footage of three Purist super soldiers flying in a circular pattern around the base of the structures, unloading their devastating weaponry at the towers.

Craig’s body shook, fury coursing through his veins while the A.I. flew them back to New York.

“This will be a very dangerous endeavor,” the A.I. noted.

“I don’t care,” Craig growled in return. “I’m sick of these bastards.”

“Even so,” the A.I. replied, “it is always best to enter battle with a sound strategy.”

“Again, I’m all ears if you have something to suggest.”

“Indeed I do. The Purists are equipped with automatic targeting software. So, even if the men themselves don’t recognize that they’ve seen you, if their computer’s onboard pattern recognition sees you, their cybernetic arms will automatically take aim and fire. In other words, if the computer detects you, it’ll hit you with its neutralizer, and the fight will be over. Any fantasies you might have about barrel-rolling to avoid their fire and outsmarting them in a dog fight are just that—fantasies.”