Ctrl Alt Del

Chapter 18 - Crow Mother's Gifts

"Daniel Crow Feather, look at you now."

His voice was melodic, whiskey-tinged and masculine, a low-pitch that suggested smoky backrooms and a man who won any poker game he'd ever played. He swiveled his chair to face us, raising his tumbler complete with fucking ice cubes. Ice cubes in Hell. A childish yet effective show of wealth, arrogance and power.

Zack Murkerberg XX laughed uncontrollably, then faked sympathy by saying, "I'd offer you some of this excellent 18th century Scotch, but I'd be wasting the most expensive 4 ounces in this galaxy. And there are two things I hate: wasting money and wasting time."

Teepee tried to stand, and only succeeded shaking his chair. Inside, I knew, he was shouting every street-born swear word, every 4-letter insult, every put-down that he'd encountered in his short life, screaming them at ZM20 - genetically his father, three clones removed. For his sake, I had to get us out of here and complete our task.

Murkerberg was wearing ZM23's repaired clone body. He looked to be in his mid-20's, but the mind inside was ancient and most likely rotten to its core. I noticed a small scale model of a car on his desk. It was a Cadillac, the first model they'd rolled off the production line post Ka-boom. Just like mine. For the briefest of seconds, the letters C-A-D flashed redly on its side. ZM20 followed my gaze.

"Truly sorry about your car. They don't make them like they used to. Cars or clones. Let me tell you about my flawed and feckless later models."

As he proceeded to tell us about all the mistakes Zacks 21, 22 and 23 made, I carefully surveyed the room, trying not to make my scrutiny obvious. There had to be, somewhere, a terminal with a master control unit. And a self-destruct program.

"What the hell did he need a degree in xenoarchaeology for? Terra Veritas is the only known planet with ruins! And who needs Renaissance Lit – an utter and complete waste of time and memory." He paced the room, and there it was, nestled between two massive bookcases, sticking out like a David Hockney pool painting in a roomful of Rembrandts: a vintage jukebox, neon lights, Art Deco chrome styling and all.

How was I so certain, aside from the fact that it was completely out-of-place, that it held the control unit? Let's call it a hunch. I couldn't call it a gut feeling, because at that point, I had no guts to speak of.

"Hello, Dirty Birdy." He was standing in front of Teepee, his gaze full of contempt. "Your father used to call you that, instead of Thunderbird. But you'd go through ten, twelve diapers a day. Full of shit, just like he was. Thought he could take over my perfect scam. As if I were stupid enough to not make copies of my soul data."

"He gloated that he was the superior clone, with his warped passionless AI Consortium and his lithium-powered cyborg tech that would make the Virtuaverse obsolete. He didn't get it, you see. When you're dead, you're dead. There is no life-as-we-know-it after death. But you can make money after death. And money is power. Your father - who thought he could make the dead live again, complete with feelings – was full of shit, just like you."

In his overconfidence and hubris, the 20th Murkerberg had forgotten to bind our legs. Teep's metal robot leg shot upwards, nailing his relative in the nuts. ZM20 collapsed, his head on Teep's lap, face to face with One-eyed Willy. Seeing the Teddy's gruesome face made him move his head away, about 12 inches.

I wished for a voice then, to shout 'No!' But Teepee had been deceived his entire life and learned that he'd been born solely to provide spare parts. He was rightfully hurt and righteously furious. He squeezed Willy with his fingertips and laser cannoned ZM20's face through the desk and the far wall. The vilest mass murderer in history met with a violent perma-death...his future screwed by One-eyed Willy. Poetic, if you think about it.

The body slumped against the desk, leaving a bloody trail of cranial detritus behind. It must have hit a hidden switch, because the seat bars retracted, freeing us. I held Teepee for a moment and would have cried, but those frackin' robot bodies lacked the ability of touch or tears.

I examined the jukebox carefully. The panel had to be inside, so therefore a song must trigger it. It took a few minutes, when I spied a suspicious title amidst the Beatles, 1930s Jazz and 2060s New Asian Pop Boy bands: Also Sprach Zarathustra by classical composer Richard Strauss. It was, perhaps, the shortest piece of orchestral music ever written – just under 2 minutes.

There was a small jar in the bookcase above it, filled with quarters. I grabbed one coin, put it in, and waited. Teepee stood on my left and laid his metal head on my metal shoulder. Suddenly a platform rose from the floor on my right, and on it was a desktop computer monitor and a keyboard. They must have been over 1,5oo years old.

The screen showed the logo of MetaAppleSoft and nothing else. Suddenly the strains of 'Zarathustra' began - majestic, frightening, and powerful. A timer appeared at the lower right [1:50] and began counting down. I said a prayer to the Great Spirit.

"What the fuck do I type?" was the prayer I sent. As the counter passed the 1:00 mark, It briefly flashed red. I didn't need any m0re hints.

:49 - I typed "CAD." But nothing happened.

:47 – "Cad." Still nothing.

:45 – "Cadillac." Effin' nothing.

:39 – "CADILLAC." I want to scream.

Then I think, what if it isn't letters? What if it's an acronym? I desperately go over each key, find a possible trio, and pray.

"Coyote, it this is a trick, I will find a way to come back from the dead and kill you."

:05 – "Ctrl Alt Del."

And the music stops. There's a new screen, with the following options:

1. Self-Destruct

2. Self-Destruct and Release

Sayonara, Baby! Countdown resumes in 15 seconds.

Choose, you sorry excuse for a Murkerberg!

I look at my son and notice his crow tattoo had somehow transferred onto his metal body, which means mine transferred as well.

:05 – I press 2, grab Teepee, and barely shout, 'Mother, help us!' when the planet explodes.