True Heroes (35 page)

              “Splendid,” Caleb remarked out loud. Both entities within Caleb were winded, only Caleb himself feeling fatigue’s weight and tasting the salt from his pores, and the exhilarating pain from the multiple holes in his right arm. A majority of those sensations fell to the wayside as his good arm flexed before his power sprinted them into tree after tree—boom, crack, boom, crack—sending leaves and branches fluttering everywhere. Miniscule amounts of energy flew into the lower trees and knocked more debris into the air, successfully blocking an easy shot from the hovering helicopters and the line of sight for the men at once. His legs could barely muster faster than a jog by their usual standards out of the forest.

              ‘Can’t keep this up….’

              Caleb clenched his teeth and pushed a little harder, seeing open, uneven green stretching further than his body wanted to travel. He clamored up a steep hill, and couldn’t help but stop at the top. The totality of Caleb was hunched over, hearing a stampede of pursuant thumps behind him while searching for an idea all around. A fish hopped out of an unseen body of water to his right and splashed back into the rippled pond. ‘Do we have enough left?’

              ‘Just barely. Go.’

              Caleb almost rolled off the high embankment and into the partially shadowed water. His body rotated until his feet found the muddy bank under the cool shadow, his arm’s red film washing into the freshwater. They both rested, Power relishing the water as it recharged in any small way it could, and Caleb trying to distract himself from the engulfing pain. Power pushed out the three bullets in a single gush while Caleb held his breath to ease its burden. His lungs held nicely for the few seconds it took to close the bloody holes, the water never vibrating from the windy blades of the helicopters but the deep thumping never fading from his heartbeat. The psyche of Caleb watched as Power panted heavily, relishing the few seconds of comfort and looking for hidden strength, but finding none. His head slowly broke the surface, drawing no attention as the small cover concealed from around nicely, but left vulnerability in the front that would resemble a firing squad if they saw him there.

              ‘Hope they’re looking the other way.’

              Caleb allowed all his recovered power to surge through his legs, pushing from the contaminated banks, over the cliff, and back into the trees eighty yards away nearly instantly. The dash left no marks besides two muddy prints that signaled his landing. Now, though, his feet moved too fast for footprints; Caleb’s muscles changed under Power’s adaptation to suit their current needs. Instead of rushing forward like a blind animal, it was pushing the weight of Caleb by brain strings instead of brute force. It used focused points to move; running was possible with only the use of the toes, the webbed pads reinforced with all the power needed to push the light, fleshy body forward gracefully and quickly. Their blurring speed lasted only minutes, taking them over ten miles from the scene of blood that sharpened against Caleb’s mind again as they stopped towards the back of a medium sized building. His collective being recharged as his senses examined: feet scuffling across tile and toilets swirling into tiny pipes gave Caleb the ideological illusion that they were near society, but his sight revealed a sign telling him that his great sanctuary was a rest stop. The buzz of overexertion dulled within his skull and his arm, after being flexed and stretched a few times, began to feel normal again while his other hand clutched at the valuable pillow case he didn’t remember picking up.

              “We should keep moving,” Caleb heard next to his ear. He could feel their conjoined anxiety of escaping, and knew that their cooperation would bring about an interesting future conversation. “They won’t be able to track so many cars from here.”

              Caleb felt his moral voice sound feeble against the two voices in his head and quickly disregarded it. A brightly shined silver car broke away from the rush of automotive rigor and squealed to a stop across three spots. Caleb pushed his back off the corner and casually tried to blend with the crowd of contrary trajectories. He noticed as the owner of the target car rushed by him towards the bathroom that they were a paradigmatic group, half relaxing with children while the other half looking for basic urge resolution, but as his power took over, in no mood for distractions, Caleb saw them overlap. He witnessed the families picnicking under shadeless trees and the truckers at the payphones, receivers in one hand and cell phones in the other, and wondered what, exactly, if anything had changed over the past twenty years. He also noticed a couple that had pulled over to argue and another that had done so to make-out, perilous outliers that had always held the very course of the wayward race in their parted or clasped fingers.

              Power quickly opened the door as they tossed the pillow into the passenger seat. The black interior was still cool despite the high sun and cloud-free skies. It tenderly checked for the key. ‘Can you drive?’

              ‘I used to I’m sure I still could.’

              Caleb regained control and carefully looked into the control scheme of the car. His hand turned the key and his body could barely feel the electrical engine hum to life. He fumbled for the shifter, only to find a touch-screen beneath his fingers. He carefully pushed against the reverse function and they both felt the pavement roll beneath them, only Caleb hoping the hills on the hemispherical world would always swayed between the poles.

-                            -                            -                           

              The hive mind of the military was buzzing around in a frenzy. Every new body represented at least three consoles, each of those representing an unsolved national problem. Each lowly technician attempted to turn the decrepit, crippled house of the United States Military into a livable mansion again, one problematic ion at a time. The house of cards known as government was being shaken at its base. Most of the vibrations came from the army-turned-mob that had grown sickly from the newly named “Infinite War” raging for thirty years now. Over a tenth of the general army had become rogue or homeland terrorists. This struck fear into the general public, sparking rage and lines to be drawn across states, neighborhoods and homes. It had become the Salem Witch Hunts, the Red Scare, or a spreading paranoia with all the basis of a pseudo-dramatic high school rumor.

              Walking past the chaotic monitors, Major Howard and General Fink strode with blinders as only masters of their art could do. They quickly made their way to the Major’s large office, breathing sighs of relief for their senses when the door closed. “Have a seat, General.”

              The General straightened his uniform and obeyed, pulling out the small, leather piece while the Major’s larger chair crunched against his back. Files from both men hit the table as two pairs of eye glasses rose to both crinkled noses. Robert smiled slightly. “Looks as though we both miss younger days.”

              “Hmph, I miss a lot of times, Rob. I miss all the sense this country used to stand for. The order…hell, the freedom the order allowed. I miss being able to look into that room and seeing people goof-off on government time because they had nothing else to do. The younger kids in there don’t even remember those times. You, me: we’re relics from some distant planet that crashed here then left without a trace. This sure as hell ain’t the world I grew up in. Can’t be.”

              The Major stared off, lost in the colors of the tiny flag on his desk, while Robert nodded absently. “Stole the words from me, sir. That’s why people like us are still around. Did you see that every officer from General on is my age or older? No one wants to give it up. They all wanna be around when this country finally becomes itself again.”

              “Is that why your retirement plans got shoved aside?”

              Robert smiled with high shoulders. “I want to bring us relics back home, sir.”

              “And that’s exactly where this project is taking us.” Major Howard’s thumb moved to an opening in the felt of his desk and gently compressed the glass button. All the trinkets covering the desk—flag, tiny cannon, folders, coffee mug, pen—became grainy in appearance before disappearing beneath the now-translucent felt. The immediate area in front of the Major turned into a keyboard seconds before the evaporated trinkets appeared two-dimensionally, now sewn to the black under a thin pane of glass. ‘Feels like we’re hanging from the ceiling looking down. What is this?’ A few buttons were casually pushed, simultaneously closing the blinds, lowering the lights a bit, and inflating the objects back to the third dimension, but with the obvious grain of projected hologram.

              General Fink gawked at the resolution. “I still have one of the old offices I guess. I’ve never seen images this clear.”

              “Watch this.” Major Howard stroked another key while reaching a hand into the holo-field, a piece of paper shooting from nowhere out of the desk complete with his signature, time and date. His other hand went into the field and worked on bunching the paper—crunch, crunch, crunch—while he eyed the wastebasket beside him. The ball of paper in his right hand, he reached over, permeated the field with the paper wad, and dropped it into the basket. “Hey, made it. Let me introduce you to Meta-Gram technology. Just developed it here out of the think tank right before this project came up. Those boys discovered how to turn certain physical objects into data to be stored. It practically eliminates the need for office appliances, but it only works on certain objects. Can’t hide a gun or anything in it, but,” a third depression raised a large collection of images representing a fully stocked bar, “it can wet your whistle without a hidden bar. Drink?”

              Robert could only smile, feeling his age corrode his mind more than ever at that point. He reached down, grabbed a clean glass, snatched two pieces of non-melting ice, feeling their weight but not cold, and slipped them into the glass. “Technology really has left us in the dust,” he grumbled.

              The humored Major smiled. “It would’ve been even worse if President Tramme hadn’t gotten congress to pass the TTA bill during his first term.”

              “I actually convinced a few congressmen to vote for that.” He carefully grabbed a bottle of older scotch. “Technological Threshold Avocation…I don’t wanna know what things like this would be able to do if it could advance more than half a percent in five years.”

              “Amen to that.” A real glass of scotch emerged from the field, the General quickly realizing that the ice had regained its cool as the glass tipped to his lips. It quickly began to perspire in his warm hand as the Major continued, “He’s been a good president for us. That bill alone saved millions of people from living in VR for their entire natural lives. It all could’ve gone to plan. War would be over by now. He would have higher approval ratings. All because some men didn’t take the long view and jumped ship.” A small sample of his whiskey washed the cobwebs from his graveled throat. “Nothing but inflated egos they are. Makes you a little sick to think men like that wore the same uniform as us once.”

              One of the hovering folders flipped open as the Major elaborated. “Inflated egos with tight triggers. The President sees the key to combining all solutions to all of America’s problems in winning the war. Not pulling out, but winning. He knows he’s walking on landmines now; people are second guessing him in his own cabinet and all across the country. He’s been good for this country, and I always support good presidents. That’s why our revised strategy for winning the war is in my hands. We all agree we want this end quick, we want it clean, and we can’t afford any more letters to families tumbling the pile. With that, we were given permission to start this little project.” He flicked one of the papers to the General. “What you’re looking at is the Zeus Suit, which was named when we were trying to harvest electricity in the human body. It’s a specialized suit that enhances strength, speed, and brain processing power. Thanks to your brother’s notes, we finally got a working prototype that should match up with Mr. Whitmor. We still need two things though.”

              The General looked up at the pause, his interest inflating quickly. “Someone to wear it and a guinea pig to test it on?”

              Major Howard’s arms flew up in a celebratory fashion. “And we already have a candidate for both jobs.” The folder that the entranced General brought in revealed two photos of their usable subjects standing upright. “Mr. Whitmor is the perfect outside source to…consult on the ability of the suit, and he,” the Major pointed slightly, “is the perfect user.”

              “A sergeant? Five out of ten privates these days are against us higher-ups. Is he reliable?”

              “This guy will be the one. Even if he does hate us, he’s not walking away from this project. The research says he’ll have a personal stake in this he won’t be able to ignore.”

---

              “Sergeant Cole!”

              The shout came thousandths of a second before Stephen’s trigger pulled, causing the resulting bullet to fly wide right of the target built into a dirt mound nearly a quarter-mile away. He silently cursed his now imperfect shooting record before rising to his feet from the ground. His finely attuned ears heard the light leather boots of some commanding officer followed by at least three MPs in close tow approaching slowly. He bent over and picked up his light military jacket and draped it over his muscular shoulder, probably angering the officer by casually standing and never thinking about snapping to attention. “Does that gun even have bioprotection?”