Chapter Five

of roughly five thousand. The name had started because the settlement's founders, homeless teens, thought it was funny. A few hundred orphaned or abandoned kids had settled in the McMansions clustered around the mountains, western edge and foothills. They'd scrounged grow lamps and engines and weaponry, and today the denizens of the tow had the strongest city state between California and the Kingdom of Albuquerque. Rowland was their guardian, mind you,

They'd never asked him to guard them. The police had been doing quite well, thank you very much. When he'd shown up and built his shack in the middle of their only park. A delegation of armed Towins had showed up to politely e vict Rowland, and he'd been forced to carve off their foreskins as a show of dominance. They'd sent a single negotiator next and worked out a

thoroughly beneficial arrangement. Rowland would aid in the city's defense in exchange for his now departed shack, and twice a year all the narcotics he could carry home from their harvest. It was an arrangement Rowland had enjoyed. He was frustrated that Jim's men had forced him to destroy his beloved hovel, but it was hard for him to be angry all

the same. The sun was out now, and it was early enough that the day's heat had yet to set in the great red desert, and the carcass of Phoenix stretched out around them, and to Roland's eyes it was all beautiful. Once Jim had called the fight, a pair of boxy armored Hella transports had flown in another squad of his men. They assembled a brunch spread, complete with a table and two wicker chairs. Roland hoped his old friend was doing this to show go off and not

planning an actual meal. The acid twisted Roland's guts into knots and effectively killed his appetite. He was still high enough that the familiar boulders around his home seemed to flex and wobble like great mounds of red jelly. Jim's face, however, was rock solid. Roland focused on it while the rest of the world blurred. A towel came into his hands, and he realized a moment later that Jim had handed

it to him. Roland wiped the crusted gore from around his shoulder, where the tiny robots in his blood had finished reattaching his arm. It was a messy process that involved a lot of shuffling bad blood out of the skin and sludgy red globs. The globs looked a bit like the boulders, now that he thought about it. Jim's marks were over by one of the aircraft, getting worked over by a medical team that must have been waiting in the wings this whole time. The acrylic stink of

fear wafted off them from thirty feet away. Once the table was up and the spread was set, Roland and Jim sat down to watch the last rays of sunrise turned into boring old daylight. A lackey handed them both steaming mugs of cough. Roland took his black and Turkish, so thick it was almost putting. Most humans made it too weak for his taste, but this cup was perfect. He sipped deeply, and the warbly acid lines straightened and

grew just a little bit thicker. Took forever to teach him how to make it right, Jim said, having human orderlies is a bit of a trial. I think there's something about us that breaks their brains just a bit. Jim sipped his coffee and added, I gotta theory about that. By the way, Roland let out a harsh, flamy exhalation that meant I don't care. Jim continued all the same,

sipping his coffee and then launching into a spiel. My theory is that Homo sapiens just don't built to acknowledge a higher form of life, not one that's flesh and blood, and staring him in the face, demanded service. I think deep in the human brain there's the race memory of running up against Neanderthals. They were bigger and stronger and faster than humans. But we they still wipe the neander tolls out. I think humans look at us the same

way the ancestors looked at and at all. Roland grunted because that was easier than talking, and because he really wasn't listening. His eyes were focused on the shimmering surface of the coffee sober. His brain kept his thermal vision on a different mental track from his color and infra red vision. But while he was tripping, they all just sort of blended together into one multi tone massive information. So he stared and thralled as red heat bled off

into the white air around them. The math of it all was rendered as a beautiful swatch of colors, some of which weren't even visible to human eyes. Roland lost himself for a moment. If you any other man, I'd prick you with a sober stick right now, Jim said, clearly irked. It's been a long time since someone's ignored me. Not ignoring, Roland managed to say. The words came out wet and mushy. He'd taken a round to the lung, apparently,

and the repair efforts played hell on his throat. His eyes were still locked on the psychedelic sprawl of color lifting off from his coffee. He had to force himself to take another sip. The mild stimulant surge helped him break off his per ration and he met Jim still weirdly solid gaze. Sorry, this coffee is more interesting than your bullshit, Roland explained. Blame the acid, Jim laughed. The snake tattoos on his torso curled and corkscrewed and simulated excitement.

You know, he said. There's a new movement in the post human community started up in Idaho, one of the Intentional communes. They took a pretty strong anti narcotic policy. Apparently it distracts us from the important work we should be doing. Fuck that, Roland said, and spat on the ground for emphasis. I don't disagree. Jim nodded and produced an enormous and very phallic blunt. He lit it, pulled deep,

and passed it over. Roland took a long drag and eased into a slump as the th HC did its slow work, so Jim, Roland said, After a few more passes, once the acid and weed had time to push his braid into a hazy new equilibrium, why are you here? Jim gave an eloquent shrug, popped the blunt out of his mouth and stared at the curling smoke. Roland stared too, and his eyes was wreathed in a chartruse black halo of heat that seemed to almost vibrate near the cherryed tip.

To catch up, Jim said, and to offer you a job, job, Roland snorted, I need not your filthy lucre. Look at this wealth that surrounds me. He made a broad gesture that encompassed the remains of his novel. What could you possibly offer well, Jim said, fustartus. I can replace your hot plate. I think Biggsby broke it with his body, so I'll steal another one. Roland said, what do you really have? I'm gonna guess a few million won't pique your interest. Roland blew a fat wet raspberry. I don't

even care what currency you're talking about. What good'll money do me? Not even Cascadian scrip, eh, Jim asked, with a grin Cascadia. Roland had heard the name, of course, last he remembered. The Pacific Northwest's premier independence movement had been agitating to secede from the coastal pact is a Is that a thing now as a six years ago? Jim said it. He took a deep pull of the blunt, handed it back to Roland and exhaled a thick white cloud as he spoke. And they just finished their own

civil war, so the value skyrocketing. You really don't get out much these days, do you. Roland's response was another deep gulp of his coffee. Anyway, Jim continued, I know you don't care for cash, but there is something I think you might want, and I can buy it back for you if you'll help me out. Wait, buy it back? Buy what back? Roland recognized the snake man's smile on

Jim's face. He had the vague sense that he'd seen it before enough that the sight of it set his hackles arise and sparked an itch in his left trigger finger. He took a deep hit from the blunt and handed it over to Jim. The other man took the blunt with his left hand and made a gun shape with the fingers of his right hand. He pantomimed a shot to the head. His lips made a barely audible pow. Memories. Jim said, I know you only playing with half a deck,

maybe less surprised you remember my mug. To be honest, Jim took a final drag from the blunt, which was barely the length of a thumbnail now, and passed it off to Roland. But science, sir, she's kept right on lurching forward the last ten years. There's a neuro team up at m I a t. They reckon they've made a breakthrough al Zama's research. Initially, but they think they figured out how to straight up recover memories from damaged brain tissue. The attack has reversed a lot of injuries

the old science said was permanent. Roland felt a painful, tugging sensation in his chest. He thought back to the woman from his dreams with the damascene teeth. He saw her every few weeks, trapped in some foggy memory or another. Her name felt like it was always on the tip of his tongue. He didn't know what she'd meant to him, but the thought of her twisted his heart into knots. It was maddening, not even knowing what she'd been to him,

or he to her. Roland frowned, turned his head and locked eyes with Jim, eating a bunch of FED funded school scientists are gonna help me. Roland asked he had a strong feeling none of the governments on this continent or fans of me. Jim waved a careless hand less the issue, He said, those am fed motherfucker's at pragmatists. I've been in and out of the Northeast half a dozen times just this year. You do work they value, and they ignore a little. Terrorism memories hazy, Roland said,

but I know little is inaccurate. I think we killed a skyscraper. Ha, you don't remember that the Diamond building and photo one a hundred and twenty floors of rich pigs wallowing in ship. We slipped a bombing during an Austeritius summit led by the CEOs of the Big Fall. Bugged the conference room so we could hear him scream when that first blast cut the support beams. It was better than sex. There was a peculiar joy in Jim's eyes,

his chest snakes writhed in orgiastic glee. Roland felt queasy. Rowland, Jim added, the sons of bitches had it coming, maybe, Roland said, but I know we didn't just kill CEOs. I remember other times kids, not kids, Jim insisted, as young enough to take full advantage of juven the future undying lords of capital. They had to go. Roland shivered. Even if they did, I'm sort of glad I don't remember it. Jim shrugged, swirled his coffee cup, and stared

into it for a minute. If he'd been anyone else, Rowland would have been able to read his emotions by the sense coming off of him and the micro expressions on his face. Most post humans were just as easy to read as regular humans. It took a mix of very specific surgeries and a hell of a lot of time spent in practice to hide anything from Roland. It said a lot that Jim had considered the expense worth while.

Violence is the coin that buys the future, Jim said, there was a time when you explained that to me. I don't remember that conversation, Roland said, but it's been years since I've taken a life. You have a couple of four skins, one guy's hand. Sure, sometimes a point needs making. I haven't killed anyone in a long time, though. That's why all the folks you sent to my door are still alive. And I mean to stay on the wagon Killing's not one, and on this mission, Jim assured him,

just property destruction. I need two or three days of your unrivaled ship up fucking expertise. Roland flicked a suspicious eyebrow at his old friend property, he asked. Jim nodded. A couple of guys might need crippling along the way, but no killing. So what's this gig? Roland was interested now, in spite of himself sabotage, Jim's lips curled up in a feral grin. Over the last few months, we've noticed a substantial build up among the radical Christian militias in

north and central Texas. We Roland asked, my own organization, and the am FED the Central Intelligence Agency. Roland couldn't help but laugh. I remember enough of the old days to appreciate the irony of you working with the CIA. Jim's head cocked just a little to the left, he grimaced. Roland wasn't sure, but he thought his friend might be a little arrist and defensive. Anyone who lives long enough

becomes a hypocrite, Jim said with a shrug. I'd hope to hold out longer, but their satellite coverage is fucking phenomenal. I'll send you the intel. He made a flicking gesture towards Roland with his right index finger, and then frowned in annoyance. You might be the last dark brain on this continent, you know that. Roland wasn't sure why he'd disconnected himself from the Internet. It seemed to annoy other people,

but he rather enjoyed it. His hind brain had absorbed peda bites of data before he'd severed the link, so he never found himself needing to consult a Wicki to remember the equations behind the Coriolis effect or a bullet's trajectory. You could have walked from Canada to Venezuela without encountering a plant or animal his distributed mechanical brain couldn't name. The only downside to his situation was that he couldn't

keep up with politics or bleeding edge military technology. He only gleaned that sort of information by experience or conversation, and being a creepy godlike being who sometimes circumcised trespassers, Roland didn't have many conversations. One of Jim's aids ran up and handed Roland a paper thin tablet. Jim directed him through a dozen satellite images of what looked like vehicle and ammunition depots. Roland's hindbrain recognized that Dallas road systems. Immediately,

a surge of since memory hit him. Fire so much fire, the smell of it only drowned out by the intense stink of thirty thousand people panicking. At the same time, Roland felt bullets dig into his flesh. He saw hate in the eyes of the advancing cops, and he felt a corresponding surge of glee. As his brain started to pump out battle drugs. He squeezed his trigger. Roland shook his head, pulled his mind back into the present moment. Jim frowned, but didn't say anything. He just pointed back

at the tablet. Roland focused again. It appeared to be a satellite image of a defensive line in Dallas. He noted a large number of military vehicles piled into several parking garages. What's going on here, he asked, suit carriers. Jim said, couple dozen of em Roland shook his head. Impossible, that'd be enough to support what six hundred power armored fighters. Those are nation state numbers and other Republic of Texas

as a ship show. But there's no way they'd let some in surge and militia build an army like that in their borders. Maybe not, Jim said, maybe so, truth told, I don't care what's parked in those garages. You blow em up, I get paid, and you get your fancy surgery. Roland felt uneasy. The job itself seemed too simple. The killed team Jim had sent to wake Roland up probably could have done this job with a few reinforcements. It seemed weird that some nutbar extremists could get their hands

on that many suits. Roland just didn't trust the whole situation. Jim, he asked, can you promise me this memory thing will work? Fuck no, Jim scoffed, I can't even promise you'll survive. This is a bleeding edge mad science operation. The infant is willing to break in a national law to work on a wanted terrorist. I'm half sure they just want to see what happens when they stopped poking around your skull.

You might be making the worst mistake of your life here, but at least you'll die after blowing up a bunch of gear owned by Crystal Fashion just assholes. Roland considered for a long moment, then nod at his assent. Alright, then you've convinced me. I'm in as long as this stay is a sabotage mission. No killing, no killing. Jim agreed. They both stared out at the vacant desert for some time. Roland found himself humming along to a song he couldn't

name or even remember hearing. Jim hummed along with him. He put a hand on Roland's shoulder. That felt good. There was something about human contact that none of the machines in his head could replicate. They sat for a while longer. Then Jim squeezed Roland's shoulder and stood come for another peaceful wall. Then, hey, everybody, Robert Evans here. I hope you just enjoyed the chapter you listen to.

I hope you enjoyed the chapters to come. If you would like to read the text version of this book either on the web or on your e reader as an e pub, you can find those on the website a t r book dot com. So again, the free ad free e pub and the text of every chapter will be on a t r book dot com. Thanks