There has always been some kind of information divide. First it was due to Latin, then literacy. Later on, it was computers, and then phones. Now you are worried about the sliver of people who are incompatible with neural uplinks?

Your sixteen percent rejection rate leaves enough people that the market will bear our costs. The product is powerful enough that it would be criminal to hold it back from the populace. They’re going to eat this up.

You can fix the flaw as we ramp up or in the upgraded product.

Until then, the rest can get by well enough with other devices. Phones and tablets have been perfected for years and are cheap. They are perfectly fine alternatives, which is more than the illiterate can say.

-- Internal email from Marsha Clemenson, Clarktech VP of Marketing, to their Chief of Research and Chief of Production over a flaw in the production lines.

***

I paused with my hand on the trunk of my car and took a deep breath. I’d said that I would hold off the antithesis so glibly, but could I really do it? I knew that part of that was bravado. A front of confidence so the children wouldn’t be scared and follow their teachers. Now, I had to live up to that promise.

I looked around and realized that all the people who could have fled had. There wasn’t anyone else who would protect the children. My eye landed on one of the M-3s that I’d killed. Once I’d gotten over the shock, it was the same as the combat simulations at work. I had trained for this. I’d trained others for this. I’d wanted to stand in the gap, and now it was time to prove that the training worked. I took another breath and popped the trunk.

I pulled out a belt with more pouches, a small backpack, and a helmet. From the backpack, I pulled out some rounds and refilled my rifle’s magazine. I’d had the barrel of my personal P5-AT lengthened for greater accuracy. It made for a good instruction weapon because it was popular. A third of our customers were either using it or had one at home. Plus, the ammo was cheap and in ready supply. For hunting antithesis, I wished I had something heavier, but it was the best weapon I had with me.

The antithesis had burst through a plate glass window, and the shards crunched underfoot. I knew that the antithesis would be coming from a single point, a hive where they were grown. From there, they would radiate out. In open land, that meant a lumpy circle where stronger groups pushed farthest out like branches. Here in the middle of an urban metropolis where their options were more restricted, that behavior changed some. The groups would tend to follow each other until they found a way to spread out and gather materials.

I needed to find the choke point between the hive and here and hold it until help arrived. A trail of blood led to a broad staircase going down around an enclosed elevator shaft. The opening had a thick railing made of stonework, topped with a planter.

The antithesis had uprooted the plants, only to spread them over the floor. The aliens wanted organic material. Bodies were ideal, but like any proper cannibal, plants would work, but plastic plants didn’t count. As quietly as I could, I worked my way down the stairs.

I descended two flights and half another before I could see the lower level. At the base of the stair, another blood smear pointed ahead and slightly to the right, across the open floor plan. Waves of racks and displays formed an ocean of merchandise. Pushing through the sea, the backs of several aliens waded my way, flowing from where an emergency stairway pierced the far wall.

I sat down on the final landing and aimed my P5-AT. An odd twitch shook my shoulder and neck, as though something had triggered a reflex in my body. That was the third strange sensation I’d felt since the crash. Getting weird sensations wasn’t that uncommon for me. One of the reasons I had such strong anti-ware on my tablet was to prevent those sensations.

Stolen story; please report.

Every store, kiosk, and public anything in the world tried to spew ads and malware through any connection and to any unsecured augs. My friends and family complained about it all the time. Some of that net trash tried to leap from my tablet through the phone implants to my nonexistent augs. Rarely, something in that last step instead hit my nervous system directly, causing weird sensations. They were downright annoying, which was why my tablet’s defenses were cranked up as high as I could afford.

Getting three attempts in short order, however, was telling. In case they were watching and cared, I responded out loud. “I wish whatever is trying to mess with my body would stop that. You’re going to get me killed.” A message popped up on my glasses.

I raised my eyebrows as I read the message:

“Sorry, Vanguard. Initialization failing. Requesting support. Use verbal request if you need anything.”

Vanguard? Me? I half-snorted at the thought. Vanguards. One of the mysterious Samurai who used their access to unlimited alien technology to become strong enough that countries danced around them. How ironic that I, who had wanted to be a soldier all my life and been denied it, would now be pole-vaulted into the ranks of the most elite warriors on the planet. And how true to form that it was nearly useless to me. All of that magic tech relied on the very augmentations that my body rejected.

And yet, deep down, the little kid that I had been, and maybe still was, leaped for joy. I remembered spending hours as a child learning about Samurai, and deciding what I’d do with the power. I had played Sams and Aliens, built forts, and even had a costume. Eventually, I grew older and learned how exceedingly rare it was to be chosen, and I settled for a more reachable goal: the military, only to have that too denied.

Assuming, of course, that it was real and not a scam. My tablet or glasses could have been hacked, and I was getting trolled. I cleared the message. “Well, stop that. I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I replied. It made no difference if it was real or a hoax, as long as they stopped the odd reactions and let me fight.

I lined up on the nearest of the M-3s and killed it with a headshot. Quickly and surgically, I shot each of the eight beasts as they came into view. Eight dead, eleven bullets. A strong smell hit me, a blend of earthy freshness without any of the bright tanginess popular in the “spring” style of candles. My father had described dead antithesis as smelling like fresh-cut grass. I wouldn’t know. I’d never seen anyone cut grass. Nor would I normally be aware of the scent.

I swapped my mag for a fresh one and rotated the full ones around to the front while the friction strap kept the P5-AT at hand. I was down to three full mags of 15 bullets each and a partial in reach. I had more rounds with me. One of the advantages of working at a gun range was the cheap ammo. However, it might as well have been on the moon while still stored in my backpack, when the next wave was already coming up the distant emergency stairs. Six more speedy M-3s died, the last at the foot of the stairs.

“If you can’t sync with me, how are you able to hear me?” I asked during the lull that followed.

“Hacked your tablet. Using Mic from that. Can link to glasses. But data too limited. Phone access restricted.” The messages came in short sentences, a necessity for them to be readable on my glasses. As always, the texts were painfully slow on my glasses. All my friends and contacts knew that texting me took too long and called me instead.

I cleared the messages. “Okay, I can get that, but it’s the best I’ve got right now.”

“Upgrade glasses?”

“There aren’t any. These are about the top of the line.” I replied. A couple more antithesis had come up the stairs, and I lined up for a shot at them as they came.

“Current points: 305”

“Hey! No texts while I’m shooting,” I said as I closed the message. As the text box closed out, the M-3 moved behind a mannequin, and I lost the shot. “The text covers too much space, and I can’t see around it,” I explained as I lined up a different shot and serviced another alien.

The next wave started with ten M-3s. Behind them, I spotted the waving tentacles of two Model Fours and started to prepare for a retreat. I was hard-pressed to keep the M-3s back, and soon they were at the foot of the stairs. I stood up and continued to shoot as I retreated around the corner and up the stairs. Two M-3s pushed around the corner on the landing at the same time, one catching a bullet in the head. Its partner leaped up the stairs, landing at my feet. I switched to semi-auto, landing a burst of three bullets into its back. At the landing, more of the doglike aliens turned the corner. I started to shoot more, hot-swapping magazines. It was time to find out if this vanguard thing was real or a hoax.