A Soldier's Homecoming

Ever since the United Nations Supreme Senate passed the "Trans-Human Equality Act of 2047", the social and political landscape had forever become immensely altered. A.I. had successfully integrated with mankind's biological domain, using the bio-net-link technology first championed by Elyon Industries, following their prolific contract with the New Earth Defense Ministry. What resulted from the implementation of this break-through advancement in the technology arts, could be observed in the overwhelming majority of police and military functions that had become occupied by those referred to as "The Links"... of which; I was one.

I was the acting Chief Officer of a highly-trained regiment of specialized recruits for an agency that worked under the New Earth Defense Ministry, but our public relations identity put us alongside the Municipal Police Agency, as a sub-contractor. It was thought to improve the public's confidence, while calming suspicions of a covert "black-ops" type of project. Nobody had the full awareness of what it was that we actually did in our daily routines, but it's probably just as well they didn't. If they only perceive us as those police that take care of the big criminal element on the streets, then we have achieved our goal for the sake of appearances.

While on the company clock, we were required to be fully suited at all times, including the combat-grade helmet, loaded with features that brought me online with the Intelligence Department within our division. Once the helmet was secured on my head, the bio-net-link technology interfaced remotely, and the Optics panel provided the necessary intel for our missions to synchronize. With the link tech in my head, it provided physical enhancements for a new level of dexterity and coordination, allowing me to enumerate a simultaneous set of actions, in specific sequence; to load ammunition into all my unit-issued weaponry, check the maps, secure the transportation authorization via telecom, and a laundry list of lesser tasks; all of which were standard protocol for the initiation of a mission.

During the course of an average day, there were times of inactivity that allowed for us to partake of normal social behavior, like telling jokes and things of that nature. R-143-T:4 was doing just that; setting up the plot of one of his epic jokes, but just moments from the punchline, we received a read-out on our Optics panels. It was "go time" for the eleven of us. The intel details were downloaded directly through our para-sympathetic panels; a message system without text or audible speech, like voices in the head of the insane.

When our armored gyro-craft alerted us of our arrival, the tele-ramp stretched for the ground as the hangar door opened. In what had become an automated exit routine, my unit and I filed down the ramp in true, robotic, military fashion. Our optic panels were now receiving instructions in real time, including the "Predicted Present Position" (3-P app; Protocol 78.3 (b); Tactical Advance Manual; United Nations Enforcement Project), which enabled a virtually-simulated view for the blueprint of the structure, and the expected location for engaging the targets (92% accuracy rating).

This mission was proceeding with the regularity of my previous forty-five official deployments, as I took the lead, being the Chief Officer of the ranks. We were to extract the N.C.C.'s (Non-Compliant Combatants) in any manner necessary, as the Intelligence Apparatus (I.A.) had solved its metadata algorithms to expose a "future act of defiance" to The Regime; codified under Statute 3069(k)(25); Title 454.

The I.A. was never wrong. At least I assume that to be the case, since after elimination of the threats in each instance, no rebellious act had ever transpired thereafter. I began to consider the flaw in my manner of thinking, in the privacy of my thoughts: "Wait, but what if ..."; (Glitch).

"What was that?!", I silently speculated. My optic panel had just surged and blinked out for a brief second. I had never experienced that before, causing me to recall the briefing during my cadet training, which indicated that this kind of interruption was caused by an U.A.I.T.P. (Un-Authorized Independent Thought Process). These were considered to be a malfunction of the bio-net-link device, which have built-in safeguards against UAITP's and PTHE's (Pre-Trans-Human Experiences). There is always a potential for relative problems in association with the missions when something of this nature occurs, but the likelihood of such an anomaly taking place, statistically, was slim to none.

As we breached the entryway, my team split right and left. Our maps indicated the hallway we were in to be such that; it provided a tactical advantage by flanking both sides at the point where they reconvene, precisely where the targets had been "3-P'd". For reasons of which I am unsure, I hesitated before opting to descend the stairwell to my immediate left, alone. In that moment, it came again ... (Glitch)... only this time it was accompanied by a rare occurrence: a memory ... I think. How can I be sure? We were instructed on the phenomenon that refers to a "memory", but to think I may have just experienced one was ... strange ... eerie ... unsettling ... and somehow warm.

"Soldier, get yer' fuckin' head back in the game!", I barked, internally. As I continued down the stairwell, I was suddenly transported to a room with four other people: two adults, two children and myself. We were opening presents by a decorative tree. "How bizarre is this?", I thought. I was in pajamas and excitedly shredding the shiny, gold wrapping paper around a box. The kids ... my brother and sister? The adults ... my ... parents? (Glitch).

I could hear the footsteps on the right and left above me; a rapid shuffle in near-perfect cadence, as my team was about to angle back in a direction to bring the two halves of the team within visual of each other again.

I have been here before. I'm sure of it. How is that possible? I have no known associations with this address in my file. As I wrestled with that notion, I came to a halt after rounding a corner at the doorway to a room that served as a family den of sorts. My blood froze as the soldier ceased to exist.

I was staring at them, and they; at me. Shock was in their eyes. They were older now. My parents were older than in the memory at the decorated tree, but it was definitely them. How do I even know this? At that moment, the woman who I recall as my mother, squinted and cautiously leaned in a bit, forming an inquisitive facial expression, with pressed lips. "M-m-michael? Is that you?"

I then heard the cadenced shuffling dissipating, as my team came back together above me. The shock must have been palpable as they realized the 3-P was inaccurate. As anticipated, the following report came, both; vocally, and across the screen: "Targets absent! Corrupt Info! Intel update request initiated."

(Glitch ... Glitch ...) I was offline. The boots were headed this direction, as they shuffled back to where they'd begun. They'd be coming down that stairwell at any moment now, and it would be only a matter of a dozen seconds thereafter, that they would find their unit leader staring in disbelief at the .... targets? Oh no ... they have no clue what is going on, and the body language, coupled with old-fashioned intuition, honestly declares that these people ... my parents ... are not guilty of any such thing as should call for their dispatch.

"Chief, you're offline. Sound off your position if you're not compromised," came the sergeant's call. I motioned to my folks to hide themselves, as my mother's eyes filled with tears. It must have been some time now since we've seen eachother. Dad just stared with a quiet disbelief, his expression caught between horror and happiness. The stairwell had released its first footsteps onto the floor that leads to this room, as the optic panel posted: "Reboot sequence initiated."

I could feel the frequency pitch forth, as the sequence began its journey to capture the database interface that was directly linked to my neurological network. During this brief boot sequence, I enjoyed several family moments, including helping my pregnant mother with baking some chocolate chip cookies, upstairs, in the kitchen. She plopped rounded scoops of dough onto the greased cookie sheet, while I took on the task of licking the batter off of the beaters. Getting my tongue between the spiral blades was a difficult maneuver, and should not be thought of as something to be left to those without the skills to accomplish such a feat. I was her "big helper" and she smiled at me to let me know it was so.

Dad just looked up from his hard copy news articles, with his eyes only, which had positioned themselves above the frames of his glasses, so they could look directly into mine without any obstacles in between. He had that familiar look on his face. It wasn't anger or disappointment. It was more of a casual, but genuine concern. The silence was nearing eternity when he finally spoke. "And you thought this would be a good idea ... why?" As my teenage awkwardness provided testimony to my guilt, my survival instincts kicked my word-searching mechanism into high gear. He was, of course, referring to the gunpowder bomb I had manufactured in my bedroom, and then brilliantly decided to test on my sister's Malibu Barbie playhouse. Although I had removed myself and the playhouse to the wooded area across from Mr. and Mrs. Baltstand's house, a good 200 yards away, the percussion that ensued from igniting that thing closed the distance in about "right now minus two"! It traveled from 3515 Destine Lane to 3210 Destine Lane (which was the home of my father's ears) quicker than a doctor prescribes an experimental drug!

"I guess I didn't really think it through that far," I replied. "I just knew I needed something to properly test the kinetic energy response in relation to the vector of its momentum conservation, as it applies to overall velocity impact degradation. I didn't know it'd leave nothing to accurately measure." What I had just delivered was the equivalent of coming from out of the bullpen and striking out three in a row to save the starter's no-runs-earned game of a lifetime; I was sure of that much!

I could see the pride in his face even as he was punishing me. Nevertheless, I had to hear the words every teenager hates to hear ... "Bootstrap repaired. Link initiated. Neuro-network recovery complete in: 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... ". And my father's face aged before my very eyes.

I woke up in a semi-dream state, to realize I was on the job. I was on the force! I'd made it! I was right in the heat of my first mission. All of the training would now pay its dividends, as the confirmation request returned its query through my optic panel. I had a visual on the targets, and I raised up my D-FAR (Distortion Frequency Assault Rifle) to illuminate the chest of the male subject. The woman appeared to be willing to beg for a reprieve, but detractors are not tolerated in this world order. We all are of one mind and are determined to stamp out evil from the face of this planet. The comradery of the post-human era is a remarkable discipline to behold. The system in place for fleshing out the rebels ... the non-conformist, fascist piles of shit that they are ... is without parallel, and I get to partake in the glory of this purging.

" ... 0". The number zero echoed its intention through the whole of my being, as the training, instinct, duty and honor all kicked in at once. The pulse that emitted from my weapon embraced its recipient with a decisive influx of energy that behaves much like flipping a breaker for the electrical circuits in houses from the old days. It causes a ground fault, basically, and fries the circuit board.

The sound of several boots caught my attention, as they quickly approached my position. That must be my team I'm hearing, coming up behind me now. I was beginning to wonder if they were even here, or if I had been sent on a solo mission. Going solo was not something that was practiced with any degree of regularity in our line of work, for obvious reasons, but where had they been until now?

As I trained my weapon on the female target, she wept bitterly. "Michael ...", she managed, through gasping chokes. That must have been the name of the man that is currently void of vitals, laying at her feet. I should probably do the right thing here, and make proper allowance for the grieving woman to join her "Michael." Her tears were crystallized as she went stiff, then dropped like a hammer on a nail. "How romantic," I surmised, as the rest of the team began preparations for tagging and bagging the elder dissenters.

Once the targets were resolved and the perimeter was secured, the gyro-craft evacuated our unit for the return trip. The report was being constructed for the records file, as the pertinent data came to each of us through our para-sympathetic panels. Verification from each team member for the accumulation of facts was being processed for the records file. Then the optic panels displayed the finalization codes and texts that defined the basics of our deployment operation. The extraction site address eventually ran through: 3210 Destine Lane.

3 ... 2 ... 1 ... 0 ... "Why does that seem ... so familiar?"