Post-Human Trilogy

Sanha remained silent for a moment, waiting for Aldous’s advice.

“Tell him you can,” Aldous said.

“Yes,” Sanha replied.

Paine noted the delay and shook his head. “Professor Gibson doing all your thinking for you now, sport?”

“No,” Sanha replied, more quickly this time. “No. I can operate the Planck platform. If they sent the A.I. through, the platform would have gone with it, but we have older versions of the platform that are safe. It will just take me a little while to make them operational.”

Paine’s expression remained frozen, the sadistic joy he seemed to take in torturing Samantha now at an end. “You better not be lying to me, sport. If you are…” Paine retrieved Samantha once again, lifting her as he had before, displaying her for both Sanha and Aldous. His other hand suddenly moved aside, a ten-inch serrated blade jutting out in an instant from his wrist.

“Go to Hell,” Samantha spat.

“After you.” Paine swiped at her neck with such preternatural speed and force that he decapitated the love of both Aldous’s and Craig’s lives in one swift, cruel motion.

“No!” Aldous shouted as he jumped to his feet, his eyes disbelieving.

The screen went blank as Sanha shut his eyes.

“Open your eyes, Sanha! Open them!”

Sanha reluctantly obeyed, opening his eyes and letting the horror back in.

Paine had retrieved Samantha’s head and held it by the hair. Blood was jetting down from the clean cut at the middle of her throat. Her eyes were still twitching as Paine brought it to Sanha and displayed it for Aldous to see. He dropped her head, then bent low until his face was just inches from Sanha, who squirmed in terror. “That was for you, Professor Gibson, you piece of filth,” he said, hatred dripping from his lips. “Come get me, you coward. I dare you.” Then he stood to his feet, took his cigar from his front pocket, and placed it back in his mouth before grabbing Sanha under the arm and dragging him from the room. “Let’s get to work.”

Aldous Gibson hadn’t moved, but his hands had contracted into fists so tight that his fingernails were cutting the flesh of his palms. He shook with a cocktail of shock, terror, and extreme fury spilled all over his face. “Sam,” he said in disbelief before taking a small step and then dropping to his knees. “No. No.” Tears began streaming down his face as he continued to shake, his back heaving as he sobbed.

Lindholm watched the monitor silently in disbelief as he saw the perspective of the post-human named Sanha, who was being dragged by the Purist super soldier toward an unknown destination. He turned to the other post-human, the one who claimed to be Aldous Gibson, the rogue traitor the government had claimed they’d killed nearly a decade earlier, and his heart went out to him. Lindholm had seen horror in his life, for the unforgiving war had taken almost everything that meant something from him. He no longer had a family—no longer had a wife. Aldous was now his brother.

He crouched down behind the grief-stricken man and placed his hand on the middle of his back.

“I’m so sorry,” Lindholm said quietly. “I know…I know you don’t think much of us here, out in the world. I know we must appear sub-human to you. But we’re not. We’ve been hardened by the horrors of this world and the cruel things we’ve seen, but we’re still human. We can still feel. It’s buried deep now, but we can still have compassion.”

Aldous didn’t respond. He held his hands over his head and continued to shake.

“Aldous, we can hide you here. When my staff arrives, I’ll explain what has happened. They’ll understand. You can trust them. You can trust me. We’ll protect you. We have no love or loyalty to the government. We will help you.”

Aldous suddenly moved, resting his back against the wall as he stared out at the dim light that pierced the ice-covered window. “Yes. Help,” he said. “That is what I require. I don’t think you’re sub-human. I don’t think that at all.” Aldous turned and regarded the monitor on which Sanha’s point of view continued to be displayed. Colonel Paine had tossed Sanha roughly into the Planck room and was now lighting his cigar as he put the post-human to work.

“It’s them who are sub-human—the Purists. And I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

25

Craig flew, guided by the A.I., toward the Titanic’s bridge, where the captain and Thomas Andrews, the ship’s builder, had just returned from an examination of the damage below deck. They were met on the bridge by the master-at-arms, First Officer Murdoch, and J. Bruce Ismay, Chairman of the White Star Line that built the Titanic. Ismay was the first to see Craig appearing over the rail of the ship, the green glow of his magnetic aura enraging him and causing his teeth to clench under his waxed mustache. “Tesla!” he seethed.

Murdoch pulled out his revolver, only to have the master-at-arms place his hand on Murdoch’s forearm, lowering it. “Don’t bother. I tried that already.”

Craig entered the cabin, still wet, but no longer soaking. The A.I. disengaged the protective cocoon so Craig could speak, but before he could get a word out, Ismay furiously lunged forward, shaking his fingers accusingly in Craig’s face. “You work for Tesla! He sent you here!”

William Stead and his photographer entered the bridge quietly at that moment, unnoticed by anyone in attendance and using the commotion as their camouflage.

“Tesla?” Craig asked the A.I.

“Don’t play coy!” Ismay shouted back in return. He turned to the captain and continued, “This is Tesla’s attempt to get revenge on J.P. for the debacle with that damned tower of his! He’s sent this thug here to sabotage Titanic’s maiden voyage and to make a fool out of J.P.!”

“He’s referring to J.P. Morgan,” the A.I. began explaining to Craig, “arguably the most successful tycoon of the era and majority owner of both White Star and The International Mercantile Marine Company. Nikola Tesla was an inventor who had built the Wardenclyffe Tower, a wireless communications tower capable of sending electrical power without wires. At the time of the Titanic’s sinking, J.P. Morgan and Tesla were in a legal battle over the tower, allegedly surrounding the fact that Morgan, who was the chief financial backer of the tower, hadn’t been aware of the tower’s capability of wireless transmission of power.”

“Explain,” Craig replied.

“I mean you deliberately—” Ismay began, before being cut off by Craig.

“Not you,” Craig said, holding his hand up to shush the man.

Ismay’s eyes narrowed as he confusedly tried to comprehend Craig’s meaning. The master-at-arms attempted to fill in the gaps, pointing to his temple and adding, “He has a difference engine in his noggin’.”

“J.P. Morgan financed the project thinking it would be the beginning of a communications empire,” the A.I. further elaborated, “but Tesla hadn’t informed him that the tower could do much more than just send radio signals. Morgan, who owned General Electric, wanted to continue business as usual with the electrical grid of the era. The Wardenclyffe tower would have destroyed that by providing free wireless power to anyone with an antenna to receive it.”

“Wireless power?” Craig said, astonished. “We don’t even have that technology in the future.”

“Other than in some limited capacities, you’re right,” the A.I. concurred.

“So these guys…they’re holding back technology?” Craig asked.

“In some ways. Although they were interested in progress, it was only progress that directly benefitted them.”

“Luddites,” Craig whispered.

“Your analogy is sound,” the A.I. replied.

“Look,” Craig said, suddenly speaking to the baffled men who stood in a semicircle around him, “I don’t work