Ejected Earth - Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Great Lakes District — Greylunde
16 April 2585
Present Day
Jack didn’t waste much time dwelling on the thought: his father hadn’t died by accident.
He resisted coincidence on principle, but he still saw it as a variable worth eliminating.
If his paranoia was confirmed, they would be coming for Jack just as they did his father.
If someone was actively suppressing quantum computing, there would be some keyword trigger in the network of some kind.
He considered the last twenty-four hours. Stephen queried the book. He must have queried every book on the topic. If there were keyword triggers, he’d tripped every one.
Jack checked his watch. 2254 hours. Just seven hours since Stephen typed the words “quantum computing” into his computer.
Jack strapped on his boots, threw on his coat, and hurried for the door. He stopped just short.
He didn’t know what he’d run into, but he didn’t make a habit of being underprepared.
He grabbed his utility yoke, taking inventory of everything that could maim or kill.
Knife, multitool, telescoping piton, mini-pry bar, ice axe, plasma torch. All deadly without much creativity.
Polyseal, grease pen, infrared thermometer, flashlight. Not deadly, but too handy to leave behind.
He mentally mapped the tools strapped to the yoke laid on his bed. For a moment he wondered if he’d finally cracked.
Jack didn’t think of himself as violent—though a few crooked noses might say otherwise. But there are no trophies for all the teeth you didn’t loosen.
He’d fantasized about this. Dreamt of it. An outlet for righteous fury. Defensible rage. Not defensible to the state. To himself.
To his father.
And now that he actually might have it, he felt a weakness in his knees.
He strapped into the kitted-out yoke, whispering comforting lies to his limbs.
It wasn’t an accident that so much of a Canary’s loadout was so deadly. After the Tunnel Wars, settlement demilitarization was the price for peace—no armies, no weapons.
But Greylunde had lost the most. They didn’t bury their warfighters. They just handed them an ice axe and taught them to dig.
Maybe just one more.
Overkill was underrated.
He pulled a metal case from the bottom of his footlocker.
Inside: a black-market machete. Cost him a Les Paul.
High-carbon steel, full tang, matte-coated to kill any shine.
In the hand, it felt like it wanted to fall forward. Weighted at the tip, built to drop hard and finish whatever it started.
Not balanced. Committed. It didn’t ask for finesse. It asked for follow through.
He pushed the kukri into its scabbard and secured it under his left arm. Jack checked his watch. 2303 hours. He slipped into his jacket and made for the door.
He ran to Stephen’s. At this time of night, it was impossible not to stand out. Shift call happened with, or without, your permission. Greylunde didn’t make night owls.
Stephen’s shop wasn’t far from anything. You had to pass it to get just about anywhere. Less than ideal for a covert raid.
Jack slowed at the edge of the courtyard and scanned. Stephen’s shop was one of the six modular units on top of the supply wing. Middle left. No lights. No movement.
Jack walked slowly, listening. Watching. He climbed the metal stairs. In this quiet, it was as good as a doorbell. The six units faced inward, each door opening onto the noisy metal grating.
Locked. He’d never known Stephen to lock the doors. Then again, he’d never been here this late either.
Could knock. If he was just being paranoid, kicking in the door this late would be tough to explain.
Knock and get killed, or apologize and pay for a new door.
Easy call.
Knife in his left, mini-pry in his right. He wedged the bar into the frame.
Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he burst through the door like a Vore through sandstone slapping on the light.
Nothing. No one.
Stephen was agoraphobic. Worked here. Lived here. Jack had known him for ten years. Never left once. They’d have to drag him out cold.
Jack triaged his thoughts and tried to tune in the room. The bed. More disheveled than it should be. Dragged out, maybe. Jack pressed the back of his hand to the sheets. Cool, not cold. Just the faintest hint of warmth.
The usually cluttered table—cleared onto the floor. Two nylon tie-downs. The computer. Gone. Just gone.
Other than that, the place didn’t seem that bad. It was a shithole—but it looked like Stephen’s shithole. Not ransacked.
Jack sheathed his knife and made some educated guesses. They grabbed Stephen out of bed, strapped him to the table. If they asked questions, he answered. No reason not to.
The caught the tang of bleach. Subtle, but it was there. In Stephen’s quarters it was as out of place as perfume in the pulp vats.
There on the doorframe he spotted a single overlooked crimson boot print.
It almost doubled him over as the realization drove the air out of his lungs. He thought he’d be relieved that he wasn’t going crazy, but realizing he wasn’t was worse.
Jack checked his watch, then bolted out the door. 2324 hours.
If Stephen talked, then they’re already there.
The ‘what if’s’ trickled in as he ran.
The warmth in his sheets. Twenty—thirty minutes max. They had Stephen by the time Jack woke up.
He ran the timeline from when he’d seen Stephen last to now. Less than twelve hours.
He tried to remember the details from when his father died. Cod Cape was a dead-end line. Five hundred kilometers from the next closest node.
And still—roughly the same response time to Stephen.
That wasn’t nothing. He’d flesh that out later.
Jack’s legs seemed to get faster the more numb they became. Almost home.
They had to do something with Stephen first, but they wouldn’t waste much time. Or there were two teams and they were already there.
Jack slowed his pace and measured his approach. He cut down an alley, scaled some scaffolding and stalked along the edge of the building overlooking his front door.
The adrenaline hadn’t let up. The drum in his neck dulled everything else. He blinked through the stars, struggling to read his watch. Seven minute mile.
Good Christ.
His thighs burned. Lungs heaved. A body his size wasn’t built for that speed. Not for three klicks straight.
His perception returned in fragments—edges sharpening, noise filtering back in.
It looked quiet. Same as Stephen’s.
He pulled out his journal, pen in hand. Ready to jot down any and every detail he could flag.
He pressed back the tunnel creeping in on his vision and shook the tremor from his hands.
Jack’s eyes never left his front door. One way in, one way out. Anyone small enough to fit through the back windows wouldn’t be much of a threat.
Jack checked his watch again. 2358 hours.
He didn’t want to consider the possibility that no one would show. He wouldn’t worry about that until after 0100 hours.
Eyes back to the door.
Fuck!
The door closed. He was pretty sure it closed. He wasn’t sure if he heard it. But he was pretty sure he saw it.
Someone must have left. No way someone spoofed the lock that quickly.
Jack held still, ears straining. He scanned the windows for a glimpse of something. Anything.
Then he heard them.
One—no, two sets of footsteps. Barely audible. Unmistakable.
Sounded like they took a left, just out of his line of sight.
Moving right just along the building’s roofline, he dropped to street level into a dark alcove.
Peeking around the corner, he spotted two figures walking briskly towards the corridor headed to the transport hub.
Average height, build, matching gait. Might as well have been twins. Nothing of significance to note. Which, in and of itself, was worth noting.
Once they hit the corridor to the trams he’d have no chance of following. Stealth was gone.
Jack eyed the front door.
No way they all left. Someone had to be waiting inside.
He crouched. Thought it through.
He could run. Sol Seterra would take him. Kaine always needed skull crackers.
Could run down the two in the corridor. Dumb fun. Not smart. Plan B smart.
The only move left was through that door. He hoped.
One way in, one way out. No strategy. No waiting. The chaos of shift call would give him a cleaner approach, but who knew what backup could show before then.
Jack had the training, though he never expected to use it. Least of all in his own home.
He shut his eyes, breathing through his training.
Close the gap. Own the space.
He stood, shrugged off his jacket and rig, laid out the kukri, pry bar, and knife.
All gas. No brakes.
He calmly crossed the street.
Thirty feet out from the door, he moved the kukri to his off-hand, picked up a ceramic shard, and hurled it through the kitchen window.
The moment the shard left his hand, his pace went from brisk to sprint. The glass shattered a second and a half before Jack barreled through the front door. Just enough.
One man. Still dark. Holding something.
Jack kept the pry bar close. The breaking glass bought him just enough time to close the distance.
He led with his shoulder, kukri primed—careful not to silhouette his strike.
He torqued, swinging up and left in one clean snap.
The man step kicked Jack’s wrist. Almost lost it.
Hand coming in straight, fast. No glint, but unmistakable intent.
The pry bar braced against his forearm deflected the strike.
Jack’s charge was still in full force. The two collided and slammed into the wall.
His pry fell to the floor. Left hand searched for the man’s blade. Found it. Control it.
The man fought to grab the kukri’s blade.
Jack’s knees came in fast, searching for a rib.
The man wrenched the kukri from Jack’s grip.
He can have it.
Knife drew. Slipped it in quick. Again. Three times. Now lose count.
The man’s dominant hand wasn’t losing strength. His other flipped the kukri, hand on hilt.
Kukri came in straight. Too close. Ineffective.
Jack planted the knife again—hard—just right of his sternum and left it there.
A burst of new strength welled up in the man. Kukri swung out clear, finding room for effect.
Jack pinned it to the wall with his knee, both hands now wrestling the man’s dominant.
He broke the man’s knife free, cutting Jack’s hand as it skidded across the floor.
Jack drove his knife deeper into the man’s chest—palm to hilt. In the same heartbeat, he cracked his skull—elbow to temple.
The kukri clattered to the floor.
Jack folded him at the waist and planted his skull into the tile. He snatched the kukri and finished it. Deep. Final.
He stood over him, chest heaving. Barely breathing.
He looked down. One hand. Then the other.
The dim light caught the blood on his left. His right—clean.
He should’ve been covered.
Jack turned on the lights.
What should’ve been a bloodied heap on the floor… wasn’t.
He stepped closer, but didn’t need to. He knew what it was before the lights.
Android. The kind they said would never exist. The kind you had to cut open to know for sure.
He stared at the mangled synthetic corpse that lay on his kitchen floor. During the fight he never saw its face. To see it now just…vacant.
He barely made it to the bathroom. Wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, the relief he hadn’t just gutted flesh and blood, or something else. It didn’t really matter how the vomit in the commode got there.
It helped.
As he rinsed the sick from his sinuses in the sink, an iron tang, like wet nails and rot, whispered from behind the shower door.
His hand reached for the shower stall door slower than he intended.
Stephen.
A single puncture wound to the carotid. Efficient.
His body blocked the drain. All five liters filled the shower basin.
If he was able to produce any more bile, he would have.
Stumbling out of the bathroom he almost tripped over the synthetic cadaver in his kitchen he’d actually forgotten.
He couldn’t just leave it there knowing nothing else.
He shook the last of the adrenaline out of his hands and got to work.
He kicked the broken door shut and barricaded it with a table. He searched the android, not expecting to find anything.
He pulled his knife out of his chest. Working his kukri out of its neck took some doing.
He rolled the body over, planted a knee in its back, and started cutting. Clothes first. Then the skin. Or, whatever.
He was looking for a signature. A component that could point him in the right direction. Though, there was a level of grim delight in the act.
He peeled back what he could. Inside was a maze of tightly wound fiber bundles and mesh-filament muscle.
Jack kept digging.
He found the neck seam and pried it open. No serial numbers. No markings. Whoever made this didn’t want credit. Or blame.
This wasn’t black-market. It was custom.
Jack sat back, scanning the exposed internals. No killswitch. No memory stack. No shortcuts. Fiber optics. Hardened signals. EMPs were useless.
Inside looked expensive—not exotic. Someone built this to leave no trace.
But engineers always leave a fingerprint.
He checked the joints. Old design, but standard. Plating—mass-produced.
Then he saw it.
Base of the neck, under the false collarbone: a flush, keyed connector. Not power. Not data.
The alloy didn’t match. It was newer. An upgrade maybe.
He pried it loose. A six-prong port on a polished alloy disk—no markings, no serials. Buried deep, made to stay hidden.
As he turned it in his hand, one prong flickered blue. Once. Then nothing.
Jack froze. It didn’t do it again.
He wrapped it in a rag and slipped it into his pocket.
Not a trophy.
Something better.
A question.
And somewhere behind that question… a name.
He checked the wall clock. Twelve minutes after midnight.
A lot can happen in ten minutes.
If the StrataMoles talked in real time, he had to assume they did too. Time to move.
He slid the table from the door and headed for the alcove. He grabbed his gear and wrapped his hand. Kept moving.
He needed somewhere quiet enough to think. Somewhere out of sight. He knew the place.
He cut across the node toward the StrataMole pens. He’d spent a lot of time in places like this as a kid. It wasn’t Easthold, but Greylunde didn’t do variation. The damp rot in the air was the only thing telling him he wasn’t home.
Blending with the logistics techs, he slipped down a supply aisle, climbed a ladder, and vanished into the stacks.
He hadn’t done this since he was a kid. A therapist might call it regression. Say he hit a wall and ran to a time before Jackie had to be Jack.
Maybe. Didn’t matter. He needed to think. And if that required a pacifier and a blanket, so be it.
Jack peeled off his jacket and pulled out his journal, dropping both to the floor. He unwrapped his hand and inspected the cut. Superficial. He cleaned and bandaged it with the IFAK he’d swiped along the way. Then he rolled the jacket into a pillow, unbuckled his rig, and laid down.
With the journal opened in his lap, he clicked the pen and sat in the familiar thrum of the pens.
He began writing down what he remembered, doodling between thoughts.
The two in the corridor. Similar height, build. They walked…tall. Hard to say for sure, but comparable in stature to the one in his kitchen.
Skin was pale. Forgettable features. Probably by design. A face you were meant to overlook. They wouldn’t repeat faces. Too easy to vary. The body was harder.
He walked backward through the timeline. He’d been in the house at least fifteen minutes. That should’ve been enough time for the others to circle back.
But they hadn’t.
No real-time comms.
Passive systems, maybe. That would mean no outgoing signals to scan for. Designed to hold up under scrutiny, maybe.
He rubbed his sore wrist. If he hadn’t let go of the kukri that thing would have broken his wrist.
It should’ve broken his wrist. It was certainly stronger than a man of a similar build, but a machine should have broken him like a glass rod.
Could’ve been throttled. Another point in the column for designed discretion. Couldn’t think of another reason.
If someone put a cap on their performance, they could take it off if they got desperate enough.
He had to find a weakness. Fast.
EMPs were out. Fiber-optics meant signal hardening.
Jack pulled the interface from his pocket. Turned it in his hand.
He closed his journal, shut his eyes and leaned back into the jacket still fidgeting with the salient part.
Until he found their pressure points, he would need to exploit the only blind spot he could think of.
He would need to be unpredictable. Machines hated that. So did tyrants.
They’d expect him to run.
So he’d hunt.
He thought of a few names who might point him in the right direction—none of them in Greylunde. Robotics engineers. The ones hell bent on designing a better Mole.
That was the plan. Find the puppet’s strings.
He’d need a plan B.
Plan B…
If he tried for the two down the corridor…
Or if that shard of ceramic hadn’t caught his eye—bought him that extra second.
He wasn’t faster or stronger. Definitely not smarter.
Just dumb luck and a kitchen shard.
He felt his stomach churn at the near misses.
Don’t dwell. Adapt.
A sudden pulse droned through his chest. Then he heard them whine. The moles were starting their sequences. He sat up and peered between the crates.
The Moles never changed. They may be smarter now—more efficient—but that low thrum still pulsed through the floor the way it always had. Constant. Mechanical. Like they’d bury us all.
Jack watched as the StrataMoles disappeared, one by one, down the borelines.
Smarter wasn’t the word. They were more deliberate. Intentional.
He remembered the day NIS was rolled out. The way the machines moved. It didn’t correct. It just acted with certainty. Instinctual.
Like the one in his kitchen.
He didn’t know much about robotics engineering. But he saw what NIS was. What it allowed a machine to become.
Androids were always the next step. The ban made more sense now than ever. Always wondering who had a pulse. That spiral could get dark—fast.
Existential dread could wait.
He knew who he needed to find. The man behind NIS. The one who promised the world this could never happen.
Erik Francs.
Never met the man. But the right hand of the High Chair wouldn’t be hard to find.
He worried for a moment if it was too predictable.
Brushing away the thought, he closed his eyes.
He might worry about that tomorrow.
This immediately sets a sharp, tense rhythm, especially with the clock and the methodical way Jack prepares himself. The paranoia feels earned, not dramatic, and the idea of knowledge itself triggering danger makes the threat feel uncomfortably modern.
At this moment, is Jack more afraid of being watched, or of being right about why his father died?