A New World

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. At ten miles above the Earth’s surface, my surroundings are only the infinite emptiness of the dark horizon, speckled by the celestial bodies. Behind me hangs the pale moon, catching me in its vast shadow. Far below, I can see the multitude of colors and shapes that form my home world’s surface. It is supremely beautiful although I never thought I would see it from this perspective. Being here now, is the achievement of a lifetime for me, but to be here hovering in space without the slightest support, suit, or other man-made apparatus is the crowning achievement of all humanity.

I still remember what it was like to be human, vaguely, to feel pain and fear. Now, they are old acquaintances, so far distant I can scarce imagine the hold they once had over me. Once, I endured the suffering and struggle common to all of humanity, though for how long I do not know. Although my body and mind have been transformed, my memory is not yet fully restored. The process I have undergone to become the first of a new race, is an agony I am glad I cannot fully recall. Only the briefest flashes of the cold operating table come to me, surrounded by an army of masked doctors, poking and prodding, analyzing, and assessing. Then came the long nap, being placed in the cold embrace of cryo-sleep until darkness was my only memory.

Even from this height, my eyes twitch and focus before refocusing again, revealing every detail of the world far below. I feel like a child stumbling along, a stranger in my own body. At a thought, my body starts drifting across the horizon, until my surroundings are a blur as a I accelerate like a comet across the sky. I stop in an instant, and the world comes back into focus. I feel weak, not physically, but mentally, as I wrestle with the weight of what I have become. Even worse is not knowing who I was before. A beep on my comms snatches my thoughts away.

“Al, come in,” says a clear voice. “Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear Control,” I say, trying to keep my voice free of emotion.

“Good, your joy ride is over. Time to come in.” I lower my head. Now comes the reckoning. “Loud and clear control.”

I break Mach 7 as I reenter Earth’s atmosphere. At this speed, I can still make out the glow of lights from the Afro-European Bloc. The fires of industry burn hot from the world’s largest energy supplier, but that will soon change. To the East, the Russo-Asiatic Bloc is in total darkness, even my vision blocked by the thick smog that rises into the heavens. And to the West, I finally spot the outline of my home, the American Bloc. After decades of political maneuvering, North, Central, and South America all united under one government, in word at least.

I slow my speed as I move into American airspace. Soon, two F-42 Nighthawks form an escort behind me. I can feel the reverberations in the air as we soar forward. Their sleek, dark forms represent the pinnacle of modern American military technology and might, or at least they used to. A red sun descends across the Earth as I touch down in Pritchard Airbase in the old U.S. Midwest. The base is one of the newer constructions: syn-steel and anti-radar glass, Triton class missile pads, and numerous advanced sensor arrays, invisible to all but my eyes.

I alight on one of the central runways, while my escorts land moments later to my right and left. A small group of Humvees approach as I walk towards the main complex. Pritchard might be small compared to most of the strike bases in the Americas, but it is one of the most advanced, and more importantly it is the headquarters of the advanced research and design branch of the American military. I might have come into the world somewhere else, but Pritchard is the birthplace of my new life. And if Pritchard is home, then the tall, clean-cut commander approaching me is my father. Colonel Jeffrey Wright looks like he was ripped straight out of the histories, his iron gaze and scar crossed face hearken back to a more ancient and brutal time. In his unflinching gaze I see the unyielding mind that created the Archetype program, of which I am the first product.

His features shift into a smile as he nears. “That performance almost brought a tear to my eye Al,” he says, shaking my hand. “Let’s head back to central for a debrief. I salute, “yes sir.” A cadre of white coated lab techs and assistants swarm about me as I follow Wright towards the main complex, surrounding a central spire. They say very little, except to ask question upon question. All the while they scan and analyze me with a variety of diagnostic tools. Not for the last time I feel like little more than a lab rat.

From my re-memories, I’ve gathered that I’ve been here for over a year, and in the program for almost two years. As I walk, a new memory randomly filters into my mind. There’s a young boy, frail and drenched by the downpour above. Beside him, another boy slightly older guides him through the dark alleys of the Old York slums. “We’re almost there,” says the older boy tiredly. Moments later though, the younger boy stumbles and falls. The older boy kneels down and shakes him frantically. “Jake, Jake wake up. Don’t give up.” Then the memory fades, and I’m back in the present.

When we reach the single elevator that leads to the top of the spire. Wright waves off the techs, “thank you gentleman, but I’ll take it from here. We don’t want to overwork our boy on his first day,” he says with a laugh. They turn and disappear as quickly as they appeared. “How’s your re-memory calibration going,” asks Wright as the elevator shoots upward. “Same as always sir. I can remember vague generalities, no specifics, before I was dethawed three weeks ago.” “Don’t worry Al, it’ll come back soon enough. In the meantime, let’s get down to brass tacks.”

Wright’s office is on the top floor of the spire, one of the most advanced pieces of technology in the world, but his personal space is like a trip to the past. Rich mahogany bookshelves cover the side walls, filled with thickly bound books. A double-sided desk, taken from an old sailing vessel sits in the center, and at the far end is a wooden rack holding a variety of ancient weapons. My favorite is the iron tipped mace, simple and to the point. However, the room opens to a row of vast windows revealing the expanse of Pritchard Airbase. “Have a seat Al,” says Wright gesturing towards one of the massive high-backed chairs opposite his imposing leather one.

As I sit, Wright pulls out a syn-cigar. “Care for a smoke?”

“No thank you sir.” He chuckles, “that’s right, I created the Archetype formula, and yet I still forget some of the finer points sometimes. No matter, here’s the deal Al. I know you don’t remember me, not really. But I have always had your best interests at heart, and I want to give you a piece of advice.” I lean forward, “of course sir.” He waves his hand dismissively, “save the sir stuff for just a moment. I want to talk to you man to man. Now, I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, technologies that were once thought of as being science fiction, or even magical. However, I am not overstating when I say that the biological formula now bonded to your DNA is the greatest discovery in the history of mankind, and maybe its future too.”

He takes a puff from his cigar and leans back into his chair. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my old age, but I remember a time when life wasn’t so bleak, so empty, and so hopeless.”

“Sir, if-“

“Just wait a minute. What I’m trying to say is that the world has always been looking for something or someone to bring them out of the darkness. We’ve always looked for heroes, in our athletes, our warriors, our leaders, and the list goes on, but every one of them has inevitably let us down. And how could they not, they were all only human. You may not realize this yet Al, you’re still quite young, in spite of everything. But when word gets out about you, it will change the world, either for a great good or for a great evil. I just hope you make certain you’re the one changing the world, and not the other way around.” We sit in silence for a moment.

Then he stands up swiftly and quenches his cigar. “Now, Airman Al, I think that’s enough sentimentality for tonight. I suggest you return to your quarters and get ready for tomorrow. You’ll be formally introduced to the American people, and the world, so trust me when I say that you’ll have a long day. “I will, thank you sir.” The trip to the barracks is uneventful, speeding groundward on the spire’s elevator, and then a meandering walk down the brightly lit walkways of the main complex. The halls are mostly deserted except for a few synth cleaners. They labor with tireless precision, their faces almost human except for their lack of one defining characteristic, emotion.

Though my mind typically functions with the speed and precision of a super-computer I feel lost. I hesitate briefly as I see my reflection in a window. A tall dark-haired monument of a man stares back, but I don’t recognize him. I feel trapped in my own body, and there’s no escape. I don’t know what my old life was, and maybe I never will, despite what I’ve been told. If that is the case, then I’m going to make the most of the one I have now, however long it might be.

A month is not a long period of time, but it was more than enough for me to come to two important conclusions about my new life. With few exceptions, not a single person has looked at me as a fellow human. Despite my newfound power, in some ways I feel lower than a synth. Secondly, even my creators do not fully understand what they have wrought, even colonel Wright. I can feel my body still changing, shifting, and morphing past the directives of the project. For long ages, Earth’s brightest minds sought to create improvements for humanity, but with my creation they finally figured out a way to improve humanity itself.

Progress always has purpose, and sadly humankind’s purposes seem to always be of violence and destruction. I know I was created to be a weapon, a tool wielded by the privileged and the powerful. My mind rebels at the idea of being used, but I supposed we are all being used in a way. Our only choice is what we are used for. My wayward thoughts leave me as the spartan emptiness of my room greets me. Shutting off the lights with a word, I pull the thin gray blankets over my body and fall into a dreamless sleep.

The shrill beep of my alarm rouses me at 5:30 a.m. I’m up in moments, shrugging into a tight-fitting suit, with the colors of the United Americas. Though technically I am American military personnel, I am not meant to draw attention to my martial connection, at least according to my handlers. I’ll do my best, but if anyone thinks the world is going to see me and think anything else, then they are living in an idealized dream. I feel more like I’m living in a nightmare these days anyway.

The few guards outside on the runway look at me with a mixture of fear and disgust. Even here I am a closely guarded secret, but the truth is something that can never be hidden for long. I shiver wondering what strange tales they have heard. However, I don’t have long to ponder their thoughts as Wright walks out immaculately dressed in his dress blues, his chiseled chest covered by numerous ribbons and medals. “It’s time, Al. Let’s go. I follow him to a nearby hover-trans. It’s dark, low-profile hums with power as its grav-engines rev up. Inside the craft, two rows of seats line the side of the craft, typically used for covert operations. The back ramp lowers, and Wright and I stride onboard. Six honor guards are already inside preparing for launch. Their uniforms might be gaudy and ceremonial, but a look at their eyes tells me all I need to know about these men. They salute Wright as he enters but narrow their eyes as I near. “We are ready for departure sir, ETA 8:00 E.T.”

“Very good gentlemen, get us out of here.” I sit across from Wright, as he stares at his tablet running through notes. Our other passengers are silent as the grave, as we scream through the skies. A wild thought enters my mind, of leaping out of the craft and soaring free into the unknown but I quash it down quickly. I know what is expected of me, my duty to my country. It’s never been a secret, and once upon a time I believed in it enough to volunteer for it, to fight for it, and ultimately to die for it.

I’ve never been a politician, never even really been interested in politics, but even I know just how tense the current climate is, both at home and abroad. In the Americas there are riots and near open rebellion across the land, as the difficulties of reconciling all the differences of several countries and hundreds of years of history bubble to the surface in the grand American experiment. Across the Pacific and Atlantic things are even worse. All three primary trading blocs have become nationalist in the extreme to the point that a third cold war has slowly chilled the waters. My arrival will either end it or send us careening towards a final destruction.

Beyond that though, I know very little. I’ve always been told my duty and little more, the rest is simply guesswork, although I’ve had plenty of time to do that. As we start to near the capital of the Americas, Wright puts down his tablet, and leans forward. “Are you ready Al?”

“Always.”

He nods, “good answer. All you have to do is follow your assignment, no more no less. This will be over soon, and you can get started doing what you were born to do. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, then let’s get down to it.”

I’ve been briefed endlessly, prepped, and coached until my patience nearly broke, but now here I am. The world is about to be introduced to the very first archetype, and nothing will ever be the same. I know the President, all three parts of Congress, and the Continental Delegation will be there, not to mention everyone else of any import in the Capital. Several strategic comments and info dumps have been leaked to the press in order to create an ideal reception, but few know the truth. Soon, they all will. I suck in a breath, and breathe out an old friend, fear.

We descend slowly over the Grand Plaza, the beating heart of the Capital, just outside the Presidential Estate, and the Congressional and Delegation chambers. A massive crowd has filled the marble square, and flashes go off like fireworks. In the center of the sea of humanity, a great dais has been raised towering over the crowds. We touch down near the edge where a steel podium stands, and from its perch, perhaps the most powerful man in the world speaks and builds momentum in the assembled crowd. He claps loudly and announces us as the start of a new world. “My fellow Americans. Too long have we stumbled in the darkness of the past. Now, it is time to walk into the light of the future. He raises his fist triumphantly, and a roar echoes from the crowd. President James Ferguson is at the end of his third term, but he scarcely looks older than when he took power a little over twenty years ago. His hawk like visage is as sharp as ever, and thick brown hair has yet to reveal gray.

Our accompanying honor guard present their rifles in a double line, and I follow Wright through them to the podium. The crowd watches with bated breath. President Ferguson smiles as we approach and embraces Wright, before shaking his hand. He still smiles as he shakes my hand firmly, but there is no light in his gaze, and he goes back to sit in the line of chairs containing the rest of the presidential cabinet, behind us. For a moment Wright and I stand there, united at the precipice of history. Time seems to slow down, as I gaze out into the maelstrom of faces. There are many peoples, from many backgrounds, with many stories, but today is a day all of them will never forget.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” begins Wright, speaking in a firm but passionate voice. “For the past century our world has been broken and divided. Splintered and shattered by petty factions and meaningless debates. Those we once named friends have become our greatest enemies, and as the years pass the wounds deepen rather than heal. You and I know that unless drastic action is taken, our world will be plunged into a darkness we have not seen since the Third World War. I know each and every one of you, like myself, long for a world of peace rather than war. And for the first time in my lifetime, I finally believe that peace is possible.”

Wright gestures towards me. “In the late twentieth century, the term, nuclear deterrent, was coined. Roughly speaking, it was a doctrine of peace based on the fact that one side held a weapon so devastating that the only option was peace. Now, while we have long since passed that barbaric time, I offer a greater solution. Not through a weapon of war, but an instrument of peace. I want all you to meet Commander Al Henstridge.” Applause breaks out as I step forward. Wright pats me on the back, and pulls me in close, “remember, just follow th-“

Time seems to slow down once more, and my ears tune out the rest of Wright’s words as they pick up another sound. Even above the cacophony around me, I can make out the whine of guided missiles above us. Without a thought, I launch into the air like a bullet. I scan the area of the sky where I heard the whine originate and home in on them with relentless precision. There are three missiles, each streaking towards the plaza. Seconds later, I am among them. With barely an effort, I grab each one individually and launch them upwards into the atmosphere. Like a child throwing a baseball, they disappear in an instant. Only the faint sound of their detonation in my ears gives credence to their existence at all.

I land lightly on the podium. The crowd hesitates, their eyes unbelieving, their minds still processing. Then they erupt into fanatical applause. Even Wright seems shocked, but he recovers quickly. “As I was saying, today is the dawn of a new future, and this man, he’s going to lead us there.” Even now, I can’t quite explain what happened next. I don’t know if I was too distracted, or I overestimated my fledgling abilities. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. As soon as Wright finished his sentence, the world erupted into pure light and heat.

I didn’t think it was possible to feel pain again, but I sense the pressure and the destruction swirling around me like a maelstrom. Like a phantom, I elevate above the inferno. It spreads out in every direction, the telltale mushroom cloud of death. A nuclear warhead hasn’t been detonated in my lifetime, and now not just a nuke, but a city destroyer has been dropped on the American Capital. The untold consequences of what’s happening don’t quite register in my mind. But even from here, I can hear the countless cries of pain and fear suddenly extinguished around me as everything in a ten-mile radius is disintegrated to ash. I alone am untouched and above it all, but I’m still helpless, just a man in a storm.

I touch down in the shattered ruins of the grand plaza, as the mushroom cloud slowly ascends into the heavens. Now, comes an orange rain of radiation and fallout. The once grand square of marble and iron, the center of American power is nothing more than scorched earth. Amid the blackened crater, I can make out a few jagged pieces of concrete scorched as black as ebony. Occasionally, a piece of steel or iron rebar twisted into an unrecognizable monstrosity will cross my path, but everything else is gone. The atoms holding reality together here have been scattered and split, leaving nothing but a charred skeleton behind.

There isn’t the faintest sign of life, not even the remains of those who have fallen. They are nothing more than scorch marks on a blackened husk of earth. All I can hear are the haunting screams of those who perished in the milliseconds after detonation. When I first received my gift, I thought it the greatest blessing imaginable to be beyond the weakness of my humanity. In this moment though, all I can think is how unworthy I am to be alive while so many have perished.

I kneel in the rubble, letting the blackened dirt below run through my fingers, and I weep. I do not know why or for how long the tears roll down my cheeks blurring my perfect vision, if only for a moment. Something is very wrong with me, and I don’t know what it is. Then, there is another flash, even brighter if possible than before. I can feel it permeate my mind and body, down to the very fiber of my being. The heat that follows is both warm and comforting, but the chill that comes after is like a hammer crushing me. Soon, the light is gone, and I am left in the darkness as dreams take me.

I awaken to pain, something I thought I had forgotten. My limbs feel sluggish and weak. The steady beep of a heartrate monitor draws my attention, and I see my surroundings clearly for the first time. I’m lying on a hospital bed, cords, and wires attached to various parts of my body. A variety of medical instruments lie by my bedside, monitoring every vital sign I possess, and at the far side of the room, a ray of sunlight beams through the wide window. My gaze travels to the other side of the room as the door opens. I wince, my body feels tender, every movement is sore and filled with pain. I don’t have long to dwell on my suffering though, my visitor commands my attention as soon as he enters.

There is nothing overly impressive about his frame, lean and wiry, of average height. His bearing is military to the extreme though, evident in his strict carriage and bold demeanor. His blue uniform with golden epaulets designates him as a wing commander, second in martial authority only to the commander of the combined American armed forces and the President himself. Yet, his face draws no remembrance in my mind. It is in his gaze though that I see the eyes of a man unlike any I have ever met. A sharp gray, they scan and survey, analyzing every movement and detail. His narrow face is tanned to the point that I’m not sure what his original complexion was. Across his hawk like visage is a single, narrow, white scar.

He enters smoothly and heads to my bedside. Two white coated nurses come in behind him, and immediately begin monitoring my vital readouts and replacing several of the med-injectors. The wing commander proffers a hand and gives me a wan smile, “Captain Al Henstridge. I am Commander Graven of the United American Military Forces’ Eastern Wing, and It’s good to finally meet you although I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“What-“ I begin, but my voice cracks and my words abandon me. My mouth feels like a desert, so I reach for the glass of water by my bedside and suck down the liquid contents. “Save your strength captain,” says Graven. “I know you must have many questions and I’ll do my best to answer them, but rest in the meantime. You’ve endured enough destruction for a thousand lifetimes and even your body needs time to heal.”

Reaching for one of the visitors’ chairs, Graven sits down as the nurses finish their work and leave noiselessly behind him. Relaxing into the fragile plastic frame, he sighs. “A week ago, at 0815 hours the capital of the United American Republic was with great malice and without provocation attacked by an unknown enemy. A single Alpha class nuclear warhead was detonated in the center of the city. A few short minutes later, a second weapon was detonated. As of this moment, we are uncertain of its nature or origin. However, it finished the job the nuclear warhead started and sent you to the ground. Everyone else in a ten-mile radius is dead, and more are still dying as radiation sickness sets in.”

Graven pauses, gritting his teeth before relaxing. “Among the fallen, a great friend, a brother in arms, Commander Pritchard.” I start, I’d almost forgotten his loss in the moment, but now it floods over my soul. There is no time to mourn though, as Graven continues, “What I just told is what you already know, but there are several things you need to be aware of because once you leave this hospital we are going to be moving at top speed. I’m afraid there will be no time to rest or catch up. If you thought tensions were taut between the three alliances before this attack, it’s nothing next to what’s happening now.”

“We no longer stand at the precipice of another war; we are falling down into that great ravine as we speak. If we do not stop it, there will be no more wars. There will be no more peace either. We will simply destroy ourselves in one last great conflict. However, I do not intend to let that happen.” Graven smiles grimly and looks at me, “and you’re going to help me. Unfortunately, Pritchard and what he had intended for you, are no longer fully known. For all his wonderful qualities, Pritchard was never very forthright with information, and even those in authority above him have depressingly little knowledge of specifics.”

Graven shakes his head sadly. “Pritchard inspired great faith. That’s just the kind of man he was, and his Archetype project was unlike any other he had ever worked on, so he was even more limited in his responses than usual. However, the problem worsens. Pritchard was still just one man, and the Archetype project required a great number of resources and personnel. Shortly after his death, American high command began reaching out to his cabinet, of sorts, to begin extraction and debriefing. The men and women in that group knew all the secrets of the program, subtly using it to manage and lead the vast teams and sub programs they led. But even they did not know everything, only the bits and pieces that Pritchard entrusted to them, and if you’re wondering how I know all this, I used to work with Pritchard, many years ago. It seems like only yesterday though,” finishes Graven wistfully.

“Nevertheless, we had hoped to learn what information we could and piece it together. There was just one problem. Every single one of the five individuals in Pritchard’s inner circle: Doctors McKnight, Bradbury, Singh, Lawrence, and Petrov are all missing.” I recognize some of the names. Laura McKnight and James Lawrence were never far from Pritchard during my rebirth phase. However, they were never central to my focus, always on the periphery, and the other names don’t register in the slightest. “They have vanished without a trace, and in a way that’s just as terrifying as the attack. In their minds, is the last available knowledge of the Archetype program, the rest of the records have been destroyed, no doubt by whoever abducted the researchers.”

I lean forward, ignoring the discomfort. “So,” I cough violently for a moment, but it soon passes. “You think that they’ve been abducted by one of the other members of the Triumvirate?”

Graven shrugs. “That is the working hypothesis captain, but quite frankly we’re blind men stumbling around in the dark.” I suppress something I’d almost forgotten, a grin. For as serious a man as Graven appears, his figure of speech is bizarrely nonsensical, but I suppose I am not one to judge. He continues, “to simplify, here’s where we are at now. I’ve been commissioned by former Vice President, now President, John Abrams, to both investigate the attack, and to help repurpose you for our current crisis on the Homefront. The investigation is a separate matter and not something you have to worry about at present. It is the other matter, of national morale, that I am primarily here today.”

I nod, “and how exactly can I help you with that commander?”