The Rogue Element

Become an M. Pax reader and receive the firtst two books in both The Backworlds and The Rifters series for FREE.

Click here to get started:

http://mpaxauthor.com/newsletter/

Eyelids twitching, drooling like a simpleton, Carl lay on a gurney. I came to replace him, hoping not so exactly, and hugged my navy trench coat tighter. The October chill piped into the habidome, as if people still lived with the world, nipped deeper into my veins.

Carl and I had flirted with love back in the academy, before becoming fully licensed in PO, Patchworkers Order. PO forbade our affair, threatening to send us back from where we came. No way would I return to craptacular Sludge Bay. Carl vowed he’d take a stroll outside rather than live in Solder Park again, which was located on the edge of the landfill. He swore the stink followed him. Sludge didn’t smell any better. We put our blooming passions on hold and had planned to revisit them when we retired. Now that’d never happen.

The medtechs strapped up Carl’s stocky arms so they’d quit flopping around and tucked away his disturbing empty state as readily as the city dome concealed the raging storms and scalding ultraviolet rays. Before they wheeled Carl toward the ambulance, I straightened the lapels of his trench coat and committed to memory a face so dear.

Most wouldn’t call Carl beautiful. His cheeks mooned out with bulbous outcrops, a boulder-like nose and pronounced brow ridge. His fleshy lips, once brimming with pink verve and promises, matched his strong jowls and double chin.

Sighing, I scanned him. Interfaces — thin micro-patches of circuitry — covered my skin and Carl’s like most people wore clothes. I should have sensed him before the rail car stopped to let me out. His thoughts should have mingled with mine during the twelve block walk from the station. I should have perceived him beyond what my fingertips could touch. Frowning, I lifted his sleeve and pressed the black-lined circuit inked on my wrist to the same on his.

Carl, what happened?

Seizures weren’t uncommon for patchworkers, but none of those prone to them ever made it into PO. I detected no pain echoing through his tattoos and nothing of what made Carl the man he was.

PO let me tap into reports it had archived on this AI, artificial intelligence. Carl hadn’t been the first patchworker put on the job. He had replaced Gaati and Kawana. They had also ended up like this.

Crap. Three patchworkers down. Now only one hundred ninety-seven people on the planet had the ability to patch into AI and manipulate the minds of machines. Our elite group could resist getting lost in the knotted streams of code when the things went haywire. We were the few that could distinguish biological and mechanical electrical pulses, the few that could make sense of them, the few who could create necessary patches.

I pressed my wrist to Carl’s once more. All my interfaces strained to boost the signals, searching the data he had collected on this client. Into his main processors I hacked, swaying for a moment when I stared up at myself — tall and big boned, square-jawed, the telltale silver irises of a patchworker, and red ringlets flowing down past my shoulders. My curls fluttered in the gentle wind, which was piped through the dome’s vents. The breeze had a curdled smell to it, some days worse than others. Today it reeked.

Carl’s job logs ended the moment he arrived, as if erased. I found the same exclusions in Gaati’s and Kawana’s records. I didn’t believe in coincidence. PO heard my doubt and sent an instant avowal that it hadn’t deleted anything from the logs. Had the AI?

The repeated omissions gave me pause, and my second thoughts darted over the nearby gray door that had no signs or windows. It appeared so harmless. No advisories alerted my interfaces. Yet what lay beyond those doors had rendered Carl into a sack of bio matter ready for recycling. His skill level rose to a mere half notch below mine. Would I fare any better?

PO demanded I go meet the client, nudging my childhood memories until the fetid aroma of sludge filled my mouth. I needed no other incentive and ducked into the entrance.

Red diagonal stripes on the floor gave the briefest warning. Beyond them, a squadron of six Marines leveled assault weapons. Six red dots sprouted on my chest. None quivered.

Their aim gave me no choice other than to hold out my hands like a common hacker. Patchworker Evalyn Shore. I’m expected.

The Marines didn’t jostle, so I didn’t see the suit taking cover behind them. I heard him, though. His voice, more shrill than the sirens outside, grated over my jitters like corroded code. Patchworker Shore, you were scheduled to arrive twenty minutes ago.

The words flitted in my ears as a question rather than a demand. Peering around the burly soldiers, whom I matched in breadth and height, I sized up the peon sent to fetch me. A lack of authority sloughed off his cheeks like the dirty rain on the dome. I could smell his nerves, which added a sour note to the hard-used air.

My orders are to answer only to Director Beatty. Where is he? I brushed my red ringlets behind my ears and discreetly tapped my booster interface. The peon remained as unreadable as Carl.

I’m Assistant Director Randall. He held out his moist hand. It trembled.

Lots of people contracted a case of the fidgets when meeting a patchworker. As I said, we were a rare breed, but this stooge had already met Carl, Gaati, and Kawana. He had to know the rule against touching patchworkers. If PO wouldn’t reestablish my residence in Sludge Bay for bailing, I’d march back to the rail car right now.

Sweeping past Randall, I strode into the corridor leading to the AI. Let’s get ticking, bub. You now have me twenty-six minutes behind. I’ve a reputation and all. Run, run.

Despite my brisk pace, he fell into step beside me. The odd spongy texture of the ruddy brown tiles deadened any echo.

Director Beatty and I are pleased you could come on such short notice, he said. "You were born in Sludge Bay, weren’t you? What an