The Anshar Gambit (The Alice Knight Series - A Near-Future, Dystopian, Sci-Fi Thriller), page 1
Copyright 2021 by Ian G. McDowell
All rights reserved.
The Anshar Gambit
By Ian G. McDowell
To my wife Tiara
Prologue
Two minutes remained on the countdown. Millions would die when it reached zero. Aiden Lynch tapped impatiently on the console, willing time to flow faster. He stopped. Forced himself calm. He’d worked decades to reach this moment; he would wait with decorum.
He’d had help, obviously. No one could achieve such a project alone. Thousands had contributed whole careers, oblivious to the true mission they served. A tear slid down his cheek. Did Ramses weep when he slayed his builders?
A hidden speaker chimed. Lynch frowned – few knew this number, and he’d ordered them not to disturb him. The caller appeared onscreen: Pearson. Wickedly smart. A mathematical wunderkind. And now, apparently, a liability.
“Yes, Pearson?” Lynch tapped the display, hunting for the correct app. What had he called it? Obedience? No. Compliance. There it was.
“Sir, I–” Pearson faltered, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. Started over. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Oh?”
“Consider your legacy. Fire Anshar, and you’ll be remembered as the man who broke the world. Call off the destruction. Follow the original plan. You’ll be greater than any king, presiding over a renaissance that you created.”
“You ran the simulations, correct?”
Pearson frowned and nodded.
“Then you know where that path ends. We need radical change, or we’re all doomed. I won’t heap kindling on a trash fire – it would fix nothing.” Lynch shook his head sadly. “The time for half-measures has passed. We must reset, no, reforge, using Anshar as the crucible.”
“Then you leave me no choice.” Pearson reached off-screen.
A priority call interrupted the line. Security.
“Sir. Your site team just mutinied. A squad defected and overpowered the others. They’re heading your way.”
“Chipped men?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send me their names.”
“Right away, sir.”
The call dropped. Pearson re-appeared.
“A coup? Using my own troops?” Lynch crossed his arms.
“I gave you your chance, Aiden. Come quietly, and they’ll let you live.”
“I thought you smarter. Do you remember your surgery? For the anti-kidnapping tracker?”
“I don’t see…”
“It’s also a kill switch. Insurance I had hoped not to use.” Lynch tapped the ‘X’ next to Pearson’s name on the Compliance panel, then jabbed the confirmation box. Pearson gurgled and turned purple, saliva foaming from his mouth. He collapsed with a thump, and the line went quiet.
Such talent wasted. More to come, of course. A ding announced that the list of rebels had arrived from security. Lynch terminated them as well, then disabled his phone. He’d arrange for the cleanup crew later.
The final second ticked away, and a launch button appeared. Lynch smiled and pushed it. The countdown vanished, replaced by a dizzying grid of video feeds plastering the wall.
Ant-sized people rushed among buildings that would soon collapse, wrote memos that no one would read, discussed futures that had just been foreclosed. Much like any other workday, viewed on a sufficient timescale.
Lynch observed their final hour attentively, struggling to hold the scale of it in his head. To bear witness and remember their sacrifice. He owed them that, at least.
As one, the videos changed. The ant-people gazed skyward. Some pointed. Others screamed. Then all were bathed in blinding light. Lynch squeezed his eyes shut against the blaze. When he opened them, the room was dark.
Chapter 1: Alice
Alice fidgeted with her buckle. She was supposed to be giving a press briefing, but her flight to London was running an hour late. Lynch, the CEO, had pulled rank and commandeered half of the corporate copters yesterday. The aftershocks were still propagating, a slowly degrading wave of inconvenience.
Despite the delay, Alice buzzed with excitement. They’d done it. While other companies dicked around building more efficient ad platforms, her team had quietly achieved greatness.
In minutes, she would show the world that everything had changed. That she and Lynch had done the impossible, and that all mankind would benefit. She glowed with pride at the thought, though the feeling quickly turned to frustration. Introductions should be starting now. Lynch wouldn’t begin without her, would he? She dialed his personal number. Straight to voicemail.
She unclipped her restraints, stood, and stretched to release the tension in her shoulders. Too bad there wasn’t room to pace. She could use a good pace. She settled for a bottled water.
Her fellow passenger had reclined at takeoff and now snored faintly. He’d upped the opacity of the cabin’s wraparound glass before nodding off. Alice didn’t mind. She’d seen the view hundreds of times, and truthfully the height always made her a little anxious.
The helicopter lurched to a halt, and Alice nearly lost her two-egg breakfast. She snatched the safety handle above her in time to keep from pitching forward.
The windshield switched to display mode and brought up a map rendered in cheery pastels. A pulsing arc connected Paris to London, and a smiling helicopter rested partway across the English Channel. That, plus the speed readout of “0km/hr.” told Alice they were hovering motionless over the ocean.
“Come on, you piece of shit.” Alice kicked the plastic under the window, creasing her flats. The panel dented obligingly, marring the otherwise pristine lines of the cabin.
The man reclining next to her raised his head to investigate the commotion. The whites of his eyes were shot through with veins, contrasting against the warm brown of his skin. By all appearances, his night had only recently ended; Alice had figured he’d sleep through the flight.
A polyphonic chime filled the air, followed by a too-soothing voice at odds with the blunt message: “Destination beacon unreachable. Waiting to retry.”
“Perfect. I’m already an hour late, and I get the chopper running the beta build.” Alice finished her water and chucked the bottle at the map. It bounced harmlessly and clattered to the floor.
The chime sounded again. “Destination beacon unreachable. Waiting to retry.”
“Plus, the damn thing is repeating itself.”
The man next to her brought his seat up. “It’s using exponential backoff.” He sounded hoarse but otherwise surprisingly composed, given his state. “The warnings will peter out in a few cycles.”
“I’m more concerned by the buggy nav system than the warnings.”
“That code is literally flawless. There’s no way this is a navigation bug; something must be wrong with that beacon. I’m sure they’ll fix it soon.”
“Literally flawless? My dishwasher can’t run a load without seg-faulting, you think this helicopter works better? I designed the beacon network. Nothing can touch it. Look, here’s the status dashboard.” Alice folded a table out from her armrest and plopped down her tablet. It relayed the screen to the windshield, replacing the map.
“See, we’re all green, and the network is fine. It’s the copter.”
“Your dashboard is buggy. I’m telling you, the nav software is perfect.”
“You’re awfully confident. Do you have any idea how complex that system is?”
“Yes, I do. I wrote most of it. And the formal proof of correctness.”
Alice deflated. Only two people at Space Core outranked her: the CEO and his technical savant cofounder. She was talking to the latter.
“Ah. So that makes you Robert Angstrom. I uh, I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be on stage announcing Anshar right now. My emotions got the better of me. Let’s reset. I’m Alice Knight, President of Terrestrial Operations. I apologize, Mr. Angstrom. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize you.”
“There’s no need to apologize; I’m more of a ‘lurks in the shadows’ kind of leader. I’ve been keeping a low profile for the last, oh… decade or so.” He pushed back his glasses. “And please, call me Robert. Mr. Angstrom is my dad’s name.”
Alice smiled politely at the lame attempt at a joke. The smile slipped. A light on the status board blinked from green to red. London.
“Shit. Okay, the beacon is acting up. Do you have a laptop? I only brought this,” Alice gestured at the tablet, “I wasn’t expecting to get my hands dirty today.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Robert unhooked the top of his harness, reached inside his sweatshirt, and pulled out what appeared to be a solid slab of aluminum. He grabbed the top sliver of metal and pulled, unspooling a flexible display.
“The upper half of the chassis is a keyboard; the bottom is all a giant trackpad. Hope you’re a touch typist.” He handed the device to Alice.
She moved her tablet to her lap, putting the computer on the table. She ran her hands over the featureless slate, picking out the light curvature of keycaps; she guessed at the home row and dove in. The keys felt faintly warm; the action was smooth and satisfying.
“Wow, these keys are amazing!”
“Vintage Silent Alpaca switches. Soldered the board myself. Heavily modded, obviously.”
Alice popped open a console and got to work. She’d been out of the code monkey game for years but insisted on staying proficient in the software she was in charge of. She established a secure connection and logged into the beacon system.
“No recent changes to the software,” she said, “unsurprising given Lynch’s moratorium on new features. Let’s review the event history… That’s funny–”
“What?”
“Well, the London beacon was humming along fine all morning; everything looks totally normal. Until about 5 minutes ago, when there’s a disconnect event, and the history log just… stops. No errors, no reconnect attempts, it’s like the whole thing was wiped–”
A deafening howl cut her off as fierce winds engulfed the copter. The rotors whined crazily, struggling to keep the craft steady against the brutal turbulence.
Alice grabbed the safety handle, clutching the bespoke laptop in her free hand. The cabin lurched, and her head whacked the ceiling. It jerked again, slamming her shoulder into the door with an alarming crunch.
Finally, the copter found clear air and settled down. Alice used her good arm to push herself up from the floor. She froze, transfixed. The screen had turned off in the chaos, revealing a panoramic view through glass. Whitecaps whipped across the water below them. Twin pillars of fire rose in the distance, directly ahead.
Robert had kept his seat, held in by his harness. Alice’s wayward tablet lay by his foot, screen cracked but functional. He picked it up and offered it mutely to her. Behind the spiderweb of broken glass, three more status lights had turned red.
“Destination beacon unreachable. Waiting to retry.”
Chapter 2: Marcos
Marcos sat outside, skimming the lunchtime briefing. Sweat rolled down from his aviators. He scooped up a bite of lephet thoke, savoring the earthy, tangy funk. The weather sucked, but the local food made up for it.
He dropped his fork and continued reading, carefully regulating his scrolling speed. Blackmountain obsessed over metrics, especially ones quantifying employee behavior. It was all spelled out in the pages of boilerplate he’d impatiently swiped through before signing his contract. So, despite the heat, Marcos preferred to work outside. Fewer sensors to avoid.
Not that he was trying to deceive anyone; he just liked to keep his options open. Blackmountain wasn’t the only post-national firm selling protection. The right intel delivered at the right time could earn a juicy signing bonus from a competitor.
Though if he wanted to jump ship, he’d need to do something about the implant forced on him for this latest assignment. The eraser-sized nub situated above his ear began itching as soon as he thought about it. His buzzcut did little to hide it, though on base, that carried advantages; anyone could tell with a glance that he was a commanding officer.
Words scrolled off the screen; Marcos hurried to catch up. Yaba production was declining; the Rohingya laborers claimed the Buddhists were harassing them again. Shot trackers detected gunfire to the east. Probably insurgents or counterinsurgents training, though lately, that line had blurred.
Marcos wondered what Blackmountain charged in a territory racked by loose guns and simmering conflicts. It had to be a lot; they were paying him a small fortune in borderless crypto. Once he finished this tour, he could retire to a sunny failed state in the Pacific, where his corporate scrip rated better than gold. Another year, then he’d wash his hands of this dirty business.
His shades flashed yellow, and his skull vibrated uncomfortably – a priority alert transmitted via bone conductance. Marcos dropped his report to focus on the transmission. A gravelly voice stripped of emotion filled his head.
“ALL UNITS REPORT TO CENTRAL COMMAND. REPLY YES TO ACKNOWLEDGE. MESSAGE REPEATS. ALL UNITS REPORT TO–“
Marcos subvocalized a ‘yes’ to shut the thing up. A strip hugging his jaw caught the muscle signals and relayed them to his implant. It synthesized the signals into his own affectless voice, which was transmitted and played back inside his skull. ‘Ghost comm,’ they called it.
The first time hearing his ghost voice had been disturbing. They trained a neural network to mimic his speech; it sounded similar, yet it lacked humanity, and the slight delay was disconcerting. After a week, it became tolerable. After a month, it felt normal. Lately, his natural voice seemed the strange one; the flat tones of ghost speech even haunted his dreams.
So despite lacking inflection, the message incited immediate action. Marcos had only witnessed three other priority alerts. Two had been a drill. The third announced an airstrike that had razed half the compound.
Staff rushed from every building; an ant hill kicked. Marcos locked his briefing and jogged toward the nearest ‘Wheel,’ a monocycle used for zipping across the sprawling compound. His glasses lit up with more warnings. Multiple incoming mortars detected, coming from all sides. Shit, not a drill.
The outer buildings could withstand small arms, but shelling was another matter. To survive, he’d need to reach Central, the steel dome in the middle of the base perched atop an underground bunker.
Marcos’s squad was sleeping in the barracks two buildings down. They’d been working the night shift and were now caught in their bunks. He commanded them over ghost comm. “No time to form up. Rally at Central. Go, go, go.”
A combat overlay snapped on through his glasses, estimating the blast radii of the mortars. Each rendered as a gradient; a crimson center signaled certain death, a pale edge a mere 10% chance. The nearest strike targeted the Wheel pod Marcos was running for; a pink ripple lapped at his feet. A helpful flag counted down to impact: 18 seconds.
Marcos did the math. He wasn’t young, but with long legs and combat training, he could still move fast. Three seconds to reach a Wheel, four to authenticate and undock. That left eleven seconds to drive away from the blast and whatever was coming out of the jungle. Doable.
He sprinted into the kill zone, spurred by the crackle of bullets. Pneumatic pops issued from a nearby building, tube-launched drones scrambling to hunt the attackers.
Marcos plowed into the docking hub, hooking the post with his arm to bleed momentum. “Undock A3,” he commanded, unlocking the nearest Wheel.
“CONFIRMED,” the hub responded.
12 seconds.
Marcos jumped on the Wheel. He leaned forward to accelerate, and it screeched and bucked, dumping him to the ground. He rolled with the fall and came up with only a few scrapes and bruises.
One side of the Wheel had caught on the docking station. The release mechanism had jammed. No time to fix it.
9 seconds.
“Undock A2,” said Marcos as he scrambled onto the next Wheel.
“DENIED. UNIT A3 ACTIVE. PLEASE RETURN TO DOCK FIRST.”
5 seconds.
Panic crept in. A skull and crossbones blinked urgently in his peripheral vision.
“Officer override. Undock A2”
“CONFIRMED”
3 seconds.
Marcos leaned forward, and the Wheel sprang away from the hub.
Chapter 3: Alice
The windshield display was subdivided into four boxes. Each cycled through images of unfathomable destruction. Alice tapped at her tablet, struggling to comprehend the carnage. The chime and simpering voice sounded again: “Destination beacon unreachable, waiting to retry.”
“It’s not coming back,” she said, “London, Moscow, Washington, Beijing… gone. That beacon was in the heart of Soho. Gone. So is the office. My flat. My neighbors. Our co-workers, and… oh, God! My son, I think he’s studying in London this semester!”
Alice whipped out her phone and punched in Julian’s number. Her knuckles clenched white as it rang.
And rang.
And rang.
“Hello, this is Julian. I can’t talk right now. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”
The color drained out of Alice. She collapsed on the table in front of her, sobbing. Her phone dropped to the floor.
“No, wait, that’s good,” said Robert. “If his phone was destroyed, it wouldn’t have rung – it’d have gone straight to voicemail.”
It was a slender thread of hope, barely enough to hold on to. But it would have to do; the alternative was inconceivable. Alice pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped away the tears. Her breakdown could wait.
