Shakespeare once wrote that all the world was a stage, and all the men and women merely players. If so, Max considered himself the hero of an action movie. One even Michael Bay would be jealous of. Max might have also recalled that all men have their exits; even the heroes.

Max was a soldier, one that fought hard, trained harder, and killed from the shadows. There were only two things he loved in this world; vintage muscle cars and high-end blonds. It was o’dark-thirty and he cruising home in a bright yellow El Camino. In two months the car would have to go back into storage because he was due back on deployment. For now, for he would enjoy himself. Max shifted gears, pressed down on the accelerator, and glanced over at his passenger. The underwear model was five years younger with bolt on tits and a plastic giggle. She was easy to please, especially after two martini’s and a panty dropper, which made up for her tittering. The car zipped past another green light and he rolled down the window. Hot summer air washed over his face. The woman—he couldn’t remember her name—was still half-drunk and running her manicured finger nails across his thigh. He smiled to himself and decided a few more days couldn’t hurt.

It was too bad, he thought to himself. The girl was wild between the sheets, but he made it a point not to get attached. Especially to women always looking for a better deal. Max reached over turning the music up so the bass competed with the sound of the cars engine.

It was good to be back from his last tour, and he hoped the next one was somewhere with tropical islands and sandy beaches. Africa had been a shit hole, and the locals even worse. Really, it had been last mission which left a foul taste in his mouth.

For a second, he was back in the jungle compound with the smell of death covering everything like a miasma. He shook his head to dispel the memory. The blacktop returned, fresh yellow paint and green lights for almost a mile. A strip mall flew past on his right, and the little hairs on his arms started standing up straight as goosebumps spread across his skin.

Ahead the light turned green, like the world was opening its stage curtains for him, and he pressed down on accelerator. He zipped through the intersection and headlights in his periphery flashed. Through the dark, a late model electric car struck his driver side without any warning. Three airbags exploded in his face as the muscle car flipped over, and came to a stop upside-down. The driver of the honda—a pudgy faced fuck with a goatee and a nose ring—was laying in the street.

That’s why you wear a seatbelt, fuckface. He thought just before the darkness took him.

***

The light approached, just like they always described in the movies. Better still, the pain faded and he was able to look around. Max stood in a small gray room where a man in a suit waited. The other guy was handsome with dark brown eyes and short black hair. Max was disappointed the man lacked the requisite wings or even a halo. He could have dressed up a little. Then again maybe he lacked wings because the creature wasn’t an angel.

“So, is this heaven or hell?” Max asked.

“Neither, sir. You are still here on earth, however, you may find an answer to that question shortly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You were in a car accident, Mr. Maxwell… Cummings.”

“It’s lieutenant, and you got a problem with my name?” He asked in a hard voice, one that had frightened many lesser men.

“No, no. Its just… unusual.”

“It sounds like a porn star’s name, and yeah, I got plenty of shit for it. Suppose that’s why I put on muscle and joined the Navy.” There was an awkward pause.

“Accident, huh?” Max asked into the silence.

“Yes, sorry… Drunk driver.”

“Did they at least get him?

“I doubt he’s in a position to be jailed. He was cut in half, and died at the scene. You on the other hand, came away mostly in one piece despite being struck in the driver side door.”

“The girl?” Max asked feeling a little guilty he hadn’t asked sooner. He might not remember her bloody name, but he still cared enough to see she walked away from that.

“The passenger in your car has some minor injuries including a broken arm and collar bone,” the man offered and Max felt a measure of relief. As an added benefit, he wouldn’t need to give her the ‘it’s-not-you,’ talk.

“So what is this?” Max asked waving a hand at the empty room.

“An interview and a consent form wrapped in one. I am an ambulance chaser, of sorts. It’s my job to search for viable test subjects and recruit them to the project. We are experimenting with digital ghosts.” The man said with a conspiratorial whisper. Max waited, still unsure what to say.

“My name is Arther T. Franklin.”

“It seems we both have pretty messed up names.” Max said with a snort.

“Excuse me?” Asked in genuine incomprehension.

“Any relation to Frankenstein? You know, cause he had a thing for graverobbin too.”

“Ahhh… You know, I never thought of it. I guess I am looking for quality brains for our Frankenstein project.”

“Are you talking about that… brain in a jar thing? What were they called VrTek?”

“Close but no. That project is public and it is still ongoing, but again no. You are currently wearing a dive helmet. It’s how we are speaking right now. The digital transfer will happen with your consent.”

“What part of this makes me a test subject?”

“After your digital conversion, you’ll be sent to our private cloud. Your brain will be removed and placed in a Compressetome.”

“What the heck is that?”

“It a device that makes very thin slices of your brain tissue and scans them into a computer. This creates a physical map of your blood vessels and nerve endings. Your digital memories will be compared to the physical scans. We have made strides in understanding Digitization, however, we still don’t understand the exact process of the transfer. The secondary goal is to find how the brain stores complex information, which in turn, will tell us more about digital ghosts.”

“So I'm going to die?”

The man looked suddenly uncomfortable and toyed the cuff of his business suit. “You’re legs and hips were crushed, and one lung has collapsed. Your other organs appear undamaged, and for us, the brain is most important. The doctors seem pleased your heart is unscathed and you have an AB Negative blood type. They are waiting with baited breath to begin harvesting.”

“That isn’t creepy, not at all.” Max drolled.

“That’s your fault, actually. You are listed as an organ donor, and there isn’t much hope you’ll survive the night. Is there a reason you opted for that?”

“I’d rather die than wind up a coma patient. I figured the doc’s wouldn’t try so hard, which I suppose worked. Tell me, Frankenstein, does anyone say no to this little procedure?”

“Most people refuse. At this point they are quite ready to meet their maker.”

“What do I do?”

“Simply state for the record, your name, that you agree to be digitized, and you agree donate your brain to science.”

“I, Maxwell P. Cummings, of reasonably sound mind agree to be digitized and have my brain pureed in your Cuisinart.”

“Thank you… Max. The process will begin shortly. Do you want to watch?”

“My death?”

“There is a camera set up, for the record.”

“Why not, I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life. Do I get popcorn too?”

“I’m afraid we aren’t hooked up to the network. The computer isn’t powerful enough to deliver all five senses.” Franklin said with a pained smile.

A TV screen appeared on a nearby wall, but there was surprisingly little to see. A figure was draped with white fabric on a surgery table. Machines in the corner quietly beeped a slow uneven rhythm. Five people blocked the view and all of them seemed to have scalpels in hand.

“Mr. Cummings has agreed to the procedure. You may begin.” A man off camera said, and the room erupted into motion.

“Administering 50cc’s of trapezin now,” a female nurse said pushing a turkey-baster of a needle into the IV tube. The heart monitor began to slow, and within seconds there was a single flat tone. Max didn’t feel anything, the pain was still being blocked by the dive helmet. He reached down and felt his digital chest, but there was nothing but the sensation of fingers on skin. A man with salt and pepper hair glanced at a clock in the corner.

“Time of death is 02:46am,”

Vorpal blades went snicker snack as the doctors sliced open what was left of Maxwell P. Cummings. An odd tingle tickled the back of his brains like he was holding his breath for too long. On screen, they began to hack at his ribs with a powered saw. Max had seen his fair share of dead, a consequence of three tours of duty in the worst places on earth, but he was fascinated by the macabre sight. The camera moved a tad closer as the rib cage was pulled open, and the doctor expertly sliced the heart free. Hypoxia was hitting him hard and he struggle to draw in breath. The camera continued to feed the television images, but he was past noticing a kidney disappear into an open ice bucket. One perforated lung went into the trash, but the other they carefully set aside.

His legs buckled and he sagged to the floor. For the second time that evening darkness enclosed him. He briefly wondered if he’d finally see the pearly gates of heaven or the fiery lakes of hell.

***

The sound of the helicopter was a muted thrum inside the belly of the beast. Aboard the Osprey were sixteen hardened navy seals, three sensor specialists, a pair portable communication arrays, and one tired Lieutenant Maxwell Cummings. He shifted in his seat and glanced at the men in black combat gear and facepaint. Most were checking and rechecking gear, swapping ammo, and relaxing. The specialist nearest him looked nervous, and a little airsick. The man wasn’t under Max’s direct command, and he felt annoyed at being forced to drag them along. This OP was going to be nasty and now he had to babysit the pair of Navy men. He moved on before irritation made it to his face.

His eyes landed on Master Chief Jessica Wulfe also known as ‘Hot Fuzz’ for her obsession with trashy romance novels. True to her nature, she was ignoring the bumpy ride and reading something on a tablet. Max could just make out some of the upside down text which included fangs, panting breath, and multiple throbbing erections.

As if night drops weren’t exciting enough. He thought with a smirk, and forced himself to check on the package. Max leaned over and tugged on the straps holding down the boxes. The two comm-arrays were sixty pounds apiece, and little more than over-sized satellite phones. Two were overkill in his opinion. You could drop one from the helicopter and it would still transmit, but that wasn’t his call. His attention was drawn to Petty Officer Sanders who was looking at him, and the Comm gear with interest.

Max supposed this was as good a time as any to get the final briefing underway. He pulled himself from his seat and turned to face the crew. Wolfe flicked the tablet off with a dark look, which Max chose to ignore. Apparently she’d just gotten to the juicy part.

“Our squad will be inserted two kilometers from the target, but the operational directive has changed.”

“I thought we were supposed to execute some south african warlord?”

“We are, but it’s been bumped down to a secondary objective.” He replied pulling the mission brief from his pocket. “We are to escort the comm specialists, secure the compound, and wait for them to finish setting up the arrays.”

“Sitting around is a good way to get our asses shot off.” Jessica said in husky basso. “Sir,” she added after a second. Max pulled the picture attached to the orders and handed it to her.

“Five years ago, Iba Mugabe, a disillusioned and very corrupt commander of the South African Defense Corp fled arrest along with a hundred of his soldiers and carved out a little slice of the Mala Mala game reserve. The government called off the manhunt after several botched attempts. They expected them to come out on his own.” By now the picture had made it’s way down one side of the craft as Seals glanced at the picture, quickly memorized the face, and passed it on.

“Unfortunately, he turned out to be a better warlord than commander.”

“This doesn’t really sound like our problem.” Sanders said passing on the picture. “And what’s up with hardware?” He asked added gesturing to the arrays.

“Mugabe’s changed tactics. He’s given up trying to take over the congo. Six months ago he captured the border town of Mutele and began trucking in server equipment and modified dive pods. Intel believes his people set up a digital ghosting farm.”

“So he just made himself king and god of a private server. I’ve heard a half dozen Asian enclaves did the same thing.”

“Normally the powers that be would agree with you, however, he’s not politely asking the locals to digitize themselves. His remaining soldiers are kidnapping men and women by the hundreds, then forcibly digitizing them in his… paradise.” Max said placing a sarcastic twist on the last word.

“Did he cross over himself?” Jessica asked in a voice sharp as knifes.

“Intelligence says not yet. The facility isn’t connected to the Net, and his people have not cemented their position in the region. They think, Mugabe’s too worried about the South African Army gaining control of the facility.”

“How many tango’s are we talking about?”

“Forty or so guards to keep watch over the facility, but he has almost a hundred men in the surrounding area. We are coming in across the Zimbabwe border and dropping in close to the base. That means a quick in and out… if the specialists can get the job done.”

“Rules of Engagement?” One of his seals asked.

“Weapons Free. We are on a time frame, and the trash we find will be his veteran troops.” He paused to eye them all and make sure they understood to gravity of the situation. “There are hundreds of people digitized against their will on those severs. You cannot, under any circumstances, damage or destroy the generators or server building. The specialists will come in after we secure the facility and hook up the arrays.”

“This is fucked up. No wonder the South African government handed this off to someone else. The United Nations is still bickering about digital avatar rights.” Diego commented halfway down the line.

“Which is why we are getting this hot potato, unofficially,” Max confirmed. It looked like half the men agreed, but it didn’t matter what he thought. This was the mission handed to Max and he intended to complete it.The picture finally made it’s way around to him. Jessica glanced at it, then began tearing Iba Mugabe into little pieces.

The cockpit door cracked open, and the copilot stuck his head out. “We are twenty minutes north of Mutele. Get ready, Lieutenant.”

The door closed and the Seals pulled their night vision goggles down over their eyes. The lights in the rear bay dimmed to a greenish glow for insertion, and the tension in the bay spiked. Max settled his own nightvision into place, double checked his M4 rifle, and waited with the rest of his squad.

The night lights changed from green to red and everyone stood. The rotars shifted into a low whine and Max prayed they could get in and out without tripping the alarm. The back ramp of the Ospray opened revealing a dark cloudy sky. Trees, barely discernible in the red light, few past only a few meters below them. Even this far out there was a noticeable smell of death in the air. Jessica nudged him in the side, and he glanced at her hard expression.

“This is going to be a bad one,” she said then added. “I can feel it.” Max secretly agreed with her gut feeling, but this was their job. They went into dark places on the ass end of earth and cleaned up the messes monsters left.

Suddenly the tree’s gave way to a grass clearing, and the craft spun 180 degrees. Barely two clicks away a compound glowed dully in the forest. The Ospray slowed to hover barely three off the ground. Max tapped his radio twice then spoke in a low throaty growl.

“Safeties off, everyone look lively, Fire Team Alpha left, Bravo right. Charlie advance at speed. Delta stays with the comm arrays.”

“Aww, we gotta babysit the kiddies?”

“Silence on the comms,” Jessica snapped with a hiss. “Diego, thanks for volunteering to hump equipment.”

“Fuck,” the man muttered as the craft touched down.

“Go, Go!”

In a perfectly coordinated move, the Seals dropped to the grass and spread out to either side of the ramp. Max followed his troops as the specialists pushed the arrays down the ramp after him. The helicopter blades churned the grass, but otherwise made little noise. Mass graves half the size of a football field had been cut into the soft soil, and the stench filled his nostrils like sickly perfume. Bodies, mostly naked women, were piled haphazardly almost to the lip. One of the specialists stepped from the helicopter, took a look at the scene and wretched. The man’s lunch glowed green in his night vision.

Max watched his troops fan out in groups of four toward the road. They moved in a fast jog, and he was satisfied to see them so fired up tonight. He had no doubt they saw and smelled the bodies, but everyone save the specialist had kept it together.

He jogged past a second smaller pit filled with clothed men. He noticed with professional detachment, these had all been executed via a bullet to the head. The night vision helped a little and he could pretend, for a short while, they were sleeping peacefully. Max kept his head turning, forcing himself to scan the horizon for enemies. He took up a position behind Fire Team Charlie as the Ospray lifted into the air. The blades churned the awful stench, and he prayed the smell would force the patrols from the immediate area.

His forward fire team proceeded down a dirt road, while the specialists began to pick up the comm equipment. After just twenty minutes the warehouses and guard towers of a fenced in compound came into view. Several electric windmills, had been erected atop a small hill. Everyone slowed and began leap frogging from cover to cover.

Max lifted his M4 and sighted through the Acog at the nearest guard tower. Spot lights lit up the road before the gate, but the dark shape under the eave wasn’t moving. In fact, there wasn’t much moving at all within the compound, and if there were forty people awake, he’d color his nuts pink. He tapped Specialist Richards on the shoulder and pointed at the tower. The sniper nodded moving stealthily up the road, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and scanned the compound.

After a minute, the sniper returned. “It’s a dummy. No one is in the towers, but they have a dozen infra-red cameras on the fence, so they probably have motion detection. I suggest we avoid the road.” He said in a low whisper. The forest pushed in on the right side.

Max tapped the button at his throat and spoke, “Fire Team Charlie, guard the road here and wait for Delta. Alpha and Bravo enter the forest on the east side.”

Max stepped off the rutted dirty road and under the jungle canopy. He kept one eye on his men, and the other on the suspiciously silent compound. Alpha reached the fence first and started cutting links. A second squaddie held the wire hole open as they crawled inside. Bravo slid in behind them as Max reached the fence line. They’d picked a good spot. Above them two cameras were pointed to the right and left, but Alpha squad had discovered a blind spot.

Over the radio he heard Wulfe’s hushed voice, “Contact, Two trucks moving up the road.” Just what they needed. If they opened up on the truck it would alert everyone in the compound and they were only partially inside.

“Hold fire,” he rasped.

Headlights danced up the muddy road and the sound of engines soon filled the air. Max grabbed the chain-link fence and held it open for the last member of Fire Team Bravo to enter. Then he forced his way through. At the front gate a military transport and a pickup truck stopped. The pickup idled as a dark skinned man in dirty, mud stained camo jumped from the passenger side. He ran forward and opened the gate for the vehicles.

Shit, he thought. Only half of his men were in position next to the warehouse, while Bravo team was in the open laying in the low scrub. Max threw himself to the ground and seconds later the headlight beams passed over his head. The pickup full of soldiers pulled in first and six soldiers jumped down. The transport stopped and two men pointed AK’s back into the canvas transport.

This was the best time to hit them, before the enemies dispersed. Reaching up he pressed his throat mic down and rasped, “Fire.”

The night was shattered by the prattle of a dozen automatic weapons. Max rose a kneeling position and aimed at the pickup driver who’d had the presence of mind to jump back into the seat and start the truck. The M4 bucked against his shoulder as dark holes stitched the passenger side door. The driver jerked then sagged against the steering wheel making the vehicle’s horn blast.

“Alpha secure the data-center, Bravo the barracks and main building. Charlie, come up and reinforce the front gate.”

“Delta is with us.”

Good news, but he was surprised they’d managed to catch up so quickly. “Fine, Delta move into the compound,”

Six bodies lay on the ground like broken toys, their weapons having never fired a shot. Max got to his feet and crossed the distance to the transport. He grabbed the driver’s hair in his gloved fist and pulled him back against the seat. The horn stopped, so he jogged behind the larger cargo truck. Several people screamed as he aimed his weapon inside. More than a dozen dark skinned faces, tear streaked and marked with abuse, stared back at him. None appeared armed, but he kept his weapon raised because scared people did stupid things. More gunfire sounded from the main house, and the women in the truck screamed again.

“We found a technician—unarmed—while clearing the datacenter.”

Max lowered his rifle marginally and touched his throat mic. “Leave two to guard the servers while the rest double check the perimeter.”

The front gate opened again and Delta squad trudged through with the bulky arrays in tow. He thanked the gods this OP hadn’t gone south, yet. Wolfe stepped out of barracks, a knife in her hand was covered in fresh blood. Her rifle dangled by a single strap as she wiped the blade off on a scrap of something. Normally, he’d glower at the sight, but her expression suggested she was beyond caring right now.

“Wolfe, get over here and corral these people.”

Despite her expression she sheathed her knife, jogged over, and glanced into back. The women babbled as Jessica pulled her night vision goggles off. That let Max join Alpha squad in the main building. He jogged through the door and past rows of bunk beds. Dead men, still half dressed lay on the floor. The weapons they’d gone for lay in a pile in the center of the room. Max ignored the sight and moved toward three seals applying thermite patches to a reinforced steel door.

“Fire in the hole!” A man called and the group turned away from the blast. He got into Jessica’s vacated position and entered with his M4 raised. A single occupied dive pod dominated the center of the room, but was otherwise empty of threats. They quickly verified the room was clear before Max stepped in front of the pod. Leon and Erick pushed the emergency escape button and the lid lifted free. A black man with the jaundiced physique of a long-term dive junky was blinking bleary eyes into function.

His mouth opened to usher a command but Max quickly smashed a gloved fist into his jaw. His head rocked back, as Max got a good look at the man. The former command barely resembled the scrawny black man glaring at Max. His face was covered in weeks worth of unmanaged growth, and his breath smelled worse than the mass graves two clicks east. Nutrient packs hung inside the pod intravenously feeding the warlord while a waste hose snaked into Iba’s pants. No, he wasn’t anything like the photo except the eyes glaring at Max. He could feel the commanding power behind them. Long ago this man was feared and respected. Now they only feared him, and sent Max to a job they couldn’t. The two soldiers stepped back as Max reached for his weapon.

Max mentally tore himself from what he knew was going to happen next. “Hey, Iba!” He shouted raising his rifle and pointing it at Iba Mugabe’s head. The man’s eyes twitched in recognition as fear spread over features. The asshole assumed they were going to capture him, but Iba was mistaken as the slack on the trigger tightened.

Halt this magic memory bus ride, fuckers, he thought as loudly as he could.

The scene slithered to an eerily silent stop, and he gained control of himself. Max looked around, expecting something to happen. For the scene to change, but the world hung motionless like someone had hit the pause button on his life. Brass shell casings hung in the air as bullets tore apart Iba’s face and head.

“My mission history is classified. Technically, I have to find and kill you now,” he said to empty air.

A male voice unknown to him filled the space like a god speaking on high. “Cute, Lieutenant. Very cute, but we are a tad higher up the food chain than dragging a warlord from his capsule and executing him. Besides, anything we discover is put into a digital vault. Once your involvement with the project has been completed your time here will be erased.

“What-the—”

“Please don’t get worked up.” The official interrupted. “Your memories—up to the crash—will be left fully intact, but we have to protect the project integrity. You understand, I'm sure.”

“So that’s why you’ll just let us volunteers leave. I wondered about that.”

“That’s correct, Lieutenant.”

“How much longer am I going to be stuck here playing with the Ghosts of Christmas past?”

“A week, possibly two. It depends on how often you pause the process.”

“Then let’s get slide show started, I have damsels to save and warlords to execute,” Max growled back. He did not like this, but it would be over soon.

“It’s refreshing to work with a professional. Most of the patients take a few hours to collect themselves after this conversation.” The voice said and Max snorted.

“Well, do me a professional courtesy and forget this one.” He replied because Op-sec was Op-sec, and he wasn’t about to change now.

His memories shifted, as they skipped to a random place. The playground he appeared in was a warzone of a different kind. Billy Dawson was teasing Max about his name for the hundredth time that week. He stood, fists clenched in anger, and tears threatening to spill as he fought the urge to split Billy’s lip again. If he was sent to the principle’s office they’d call his parents. His father, upon hearing the news would whip his ass black and blue, so he took it, absorbing the kids malicious insults while the others watched the drama unfolding. Why did he have to be born with such a stupid last name?