Into Neon

by Matthew A Goodwin

  “Normal post-op, right?” Patchwork grinned over his shoulder. Moss was too sick to answer.

  He turned to look back as he heard the roar of a motorcycle behind them. Headlight after headlight rounded the corner, streaming after them like bees from a kicked nest. Moss pulled his weapon, sliding around the leather upholstery as he moved.

  The car was tight and he could not extend his arm and he wondered what was going to happen when he pulled the trigger with the muzzle pressed against the glass. As one of the bikes neared, the windshield hissed and rocketed off the frame of the car, slamming into the bike. It pinwheeled up, sending its rider slamming to the ground, wailing as his body broke.

  “They should put that in the ads: saves you from being trapped and from gangsters!” Patchwork laughed as they passed out of the alley onto a four-lane road. The bikers whooped and hollered as they got closer, brandishing pipes and bats. A bike with a sidecar neared, the man riding along pulling out a long double-barreled shotgun. Moss felt Burn’s sleeve again this cheek before seeing the line laser split the beam connecting the sidecar, sending it spinning into another bike.

  Video games had taught him that vehicles all exploded upon impact but all he saw was crunching metal and blood. Moss could not believe his eyes as one of the thugs jumped up, feet on the seat of his bike, fixing to jump to the car. He pointed his Kingfisher but fired wide, the biker grinning wildly as he neared. Moss fired again, striking the tire and sending the bike flipping through the air.

  The thug crashed on top of the trunk. Crazed, he reached in and grabbed Moss by the throat. He and Burn both fired at once, demolishing the man’s face and, for the second time, spraying Moss with blood. The man’s grip went limp as his body slid off the car.

  Moss sputtered and gagged for air. He coughed as he fired wildly at the remaining bikes, missing every shot.

  Flashing red lights filled the sky as drones buzzed in.

  “When it rains,” Patchwork said, his second eye going dark.

  “Bounties have been issued for the drivers of these vehicles. Pull over at once,” a harsh robotic voice commanded from one of the drones. Moss fired into the sky and managed to hit one of the drones, sending it plummeting to the ground where a biker crashed into it, the rider flying forward ten meters before slamming to the road.

  Another drone wheeled around and fired a net on to one of its partners before crashing into the lighted sign for a hotel. Only two drones and three bikes remained but Carcer was not about to lose any more hardware. A machine gun dropped from the bottom of each drone and began firing, spraying the road, car, and bikes with bullets. Like in monstrous rainstorm, the car rattled and shook violently as the bullets dented and passed through.

  “I can’t do everything at once!” Patchwork yelled as the fire stopped, giving the drones time to cool off. “You’re old, drive this thing manually!” He ordered to Burn as a steering wheel unfolded before him. Burn gripped the wheel and the car shuddered as he took control from the computer. Burn swung the wheel, sending the car turning back the way they had been driving moments before. He reached out the window and grabbed a thug clear off his bike as his machine zoomed passed them and Burn dragged him, kicking and thrashing before throwing him to the pavement. The car bounced as the rear wheel struck the biker. The two drones began to fire again, spitting metal and glass into the car.

  “Gotcha,” Patchwork said, and one drone turned its weapon on another biker, shredding her back in a waterfall of blood, then turning on the other drone, blasting it from the sky. The final bike squealed as it turned to leave as the last drone crashed itself to the street.

  The road was empty as they kept driving, Moss’s ears ringing in the silence. Burn took the first exit, driving them onto a side street, hidden from above by the scaffolding apartments. They pulled into an alley and abandoned the car.

  “Some rich fucker is in for a bad day,” Patchwork said, panting and smiling.

  “Yeah, it’ll be little more than prices within an hour,” Burn said, lighting a cigarette and opening his duster to reveal blood. “Just grazed me,” he announced and put his finger through a hole in the duster, clicking his tongue with disappointment. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “Won’t this area be swarming soon?” Moss asked, his apprehension obvious.

  “No doubt, but they will secure the skies and roads for a while, so laying low’ll be our best bet,” Burn said as he led them away from the car. “You two all right?” Moss nodded.

  “Hell, yes!” Patchwork said. “That was some action right there.”

  “Promised your mother I’d keep you out of harm’s way,” Burn reminded him.

  “And you did. I put us in harm’s way myself,” he said unabashedly.

  “Not wrong,” Burn agreed as they rounded a corner onto another large thoroughfare. They walked for what felt like an eternity to Moss, occasionally ducking into market stalls when a drone buzzed overhead. “Moving pretty good,” Burn said, and Moss took a moment to register. In the attack, he had completely forgotten he had just undergone surgery. The only reminder was the fact that it felt as if it had been night for as long as he could remember.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Think the Ferrier got out of it okay?”

  “Sure, he did,” Burn said. “Man’s been through worse than a couple of ruffians at his door.”

  “I bet,” Patchwork agreed as though he knew.

  “Kid, you’re going to have to calm yourself some if you want to keep a position,” Burn told him.

  “I know I messed that one up, but you have to admit I helped us get clear of it pretty good, too,” he boasted.

  “You’ve got skills, I’ll grant you, but that’s only a part of it,” Burn said. “Moss, here, is straight off the turnip truck but has good instincts for what to do and when. Natural talent will only get you so far.”

  Moss couldn’t help but smile at that.

  “I’ll do better,” Patchwork promised.

  “See that you do, things are only gonna get hairier from here.”

  “What is our next move?” he asked, and Moss once again racked his brain over the one-word puzzle.

  “We’re gonna take down ThutoCo,” Burn announced.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Patchwork said. His enthusiasm amused Moss though it obviously bothered Burn. “How?”

  “In here,” Burn said, ushering them into a street-side bar stall. Wood framed with paper walls; it was a tight space with three stools set before a bar. A drudge worked behind the counter, dusting bottles with shots of air from its fingertips. It turned as they entered, and Burn held up three fingers, “with drinks.”

  The machine set three bowls before them as they sat on the stools. It prepared their meals in silence and placed small cups and a pitcher of warm sake down. “Turn its ears off,” Burn ordered Patchwork and he obliged, the drudge shut down. After a short while, Patchwork spoke.

  “Whoever owns this place will get information that he’s still active and I used his vid-feed to mockup a quick video of us chatting,” he informed them. “Wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny but it’ll do so long as we pay when we leave.”

  “Good,” Burn said. “You have a screen?”

  “Something we can all see? Yeah,” Patchwork said, pulling the duffle bag he had been wearing as a backpack and moving it to his lap, producing a tablet.

  Sync his system, Burn told Seti, and the screen soon displayed the goodnight password screen.

  “What we know,” Burn began, “is that Moss’s father was a part of a ThutoCo initiative which could put their employees and possibly the world at risk. Rosetta got us as far as this password, but we need Moss to crack it, as we know his dad wanted it to be him.”

  “Just goodnight?” Patchwork asked. “Could it be some kind of cipher or anagram?”

  “Maybe,” Moss said, considering the possibilities.

  “I’ll try and Blackfoot this, maybe we don’t need to solve it at all?”

  “M
aybe,” Moss agreed sullenly. He wanted to solve it.

  Burn slurped his noodles loudly, little specks of food sticking to his beard as Patchwork worked and Moss thought about his father. Nothing was coming to him. Nothing seemed to fit. He tapped at the password screen, red outlines shaking the input bar every time he gave an incorrect answer.

  He pushed the tablet away and began eating. The food was better than anything he had eaten in the burb, save the occasional home cooking. The dish was flavorful without being too salty. Everything which was served in the burbs relied heavily on the imitation salt made from compounds sent from the colonies. He had enjoyed it until he had tasted real food and now, he could never go back. Though he knew he never would.

  “This is some locked down shit,” Patchwork said. “Your dad was no slouch. I’ve never met anything as impregnable as this. He must’ve written the book on encryption.”

  “He was more into biocomputing, I never thought of him as having those type of skills,” Moss said. “Though I’m coming to realize I never really knew him.” His own words only deepened his sadness.

  “Nah,” Burn said, his mouth full. “He always said he wasn’t keen on that kind of work.”

  Moss felt a little better, at least he had been right about something.

  “Well, someone has amazing skills. Rosetta was a beast even getting you to this screen,” Patchwork said and Moss’s eyes went wide as he kicked himself for not putting it together sooner. He snatched the pad and began typing rapidly. “What’s ‘bubba bear?’” Patchwork asked as he read the screen.

  Moss hit ENTER as he said, “It’s what my mom called me as a kid. She was a systems analyst and would have known this kind of thing. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner, but I didn’t realize until now how far outside of my dad’s realm of understanding it was.”

  The password was accepted, and a new screen appeared. “Danger,” it read. “This program will short circuit anyone other than Mossy. It will self-destruct if hacked. Only run this program somewhere safe.” There was another enter key displayed below the words.

  “We have to get back to the safe house,” Moss ordered. Patchwork packed his tablet as Burn finished his meal and downed the sake straight from the carafe.

  “Let’s get you back,” Burn agreed as he stood. “Hopefully things have calmed down. Patch, can you make us invisible to the drones if we need it?”

  Patchwork grinned. “Have you met me?”

  Chapter 16

  Things were calm back at the apartment. The crew had left Gibbs alone as they went to a bathhouse and he had been busy tidying the place. Broom in hand, he looked up as the three entered.

  “Figured it out?” he asked hopefully.

  “With some help,” Moss said and introduced Gibbs to Patchwork. Burn flopped onto a cot as Gibbs joined Moss on a couch. Patchwork sat at Rosetta’s station, pulling out and carefully placing knickknacks to make it his own.

  “What was it?” Gibbs asked.

  “Long story, well not that long really, but largely uninteresting. I mean, it could be, but for a later time,” Moss answered hurriedly. “Turns out my mom was the mastermind of the program.”

  “Oh, Bubba Bear.” Gibbs laughed, tousling Moss’s hair.

  “Shut up.” Moss smiled, playfully shoving his shoulder. He was happy. Sitting next to an old friend and having cracked the (now infuriatingly simple) riddle, he felt good for the first time in an age.

  “How’s the leg?” Gibbs asked, walking closer and leaning on the broom.

  “So good I keep forgetting about it,” Moss admitted. He took that as a good sign that he was going to recover with ease.

  “Can’t beat that,” Gibbs said with a smile, clearly happy for his friend. “So, what’s next?”

  “Run this program my parents set up and find out,” Moss explained.

  “Ready when you are,” Patchwork informed them.

  “You know what,” Moss said, “I think I need a few.”

  Patchwork nodded and went back to what he had been doing.

  “What were your next posters going to be?” Moss asked and Gibbs looked like a child given a surprise gift.

  “Well,” he began and talked at Moss for the better part of an hour about which he had planned on choosing and why. Moss had never cared much about the posters, but he knew how much they meant to Gibbs and he was happy to listen to an old friend talk about something which excited him. It made Moss feel like he was home, forgetting for a brief moment about surgery, betrayal, death, and evil.

  As Gibbs spoke, the other members of the crew filtered in one by one, having done different errands after their baths, and each one simply sat down and listened. They were all clean and in new clothes which still reflected their personal sense of style. Gibbs didn’t seem to even notice, too engaged in his passion to care about anything else.

  As Moss looked around the room at these people he had dedicated himself to work with, he noted them all smiling. Just like him, they all seemed pleased to listen to Gibbs wax on. For as hard as they were, or as mean or cold as they had been, he liked them. Stan had taken him in and been kind, Grimy had saved his friend, Judy had saved his life even after disagreeing with his plan, Ynna had opened up to him when she had no reason to and Burn (who lay snoring) had supported Moss when he had needed it most.

  He looked at Chicken Thumbs and saw a kindred spirit. The man clearly wanted to help but did not yet seem capable. Moss very much felt the same way, though he felt as though he could rise to an occasion when put to it.

  When Gibbs had finished, they all moved around him to ask questions and give input. Patchwork seemed to already know everyone and so turned to Moss, saying, “Ready?”

  “Yes,” Moss said simply.

  “Right, come sit here,” he said, setting Moss down before the bank of monitors, and bringing up the warning screen. “You know what to do,” he said, and Moss reached out and hit ENTER.

  His world went white as he heard “synchronization complete” echo in the nothingness. He blinked and was standing in his childhood hex. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he turned to see his father, just as he remembered him, standing before him.

  He knew this wasn’t real.

  He knew this was some kind of virtual reality.

  It didn’t matter. He hugged his father the way he had wished he could since that night. He wept and his dad gripped his shoulders to look at him.

  “You’re all grown,” his dad said, tears streaming down his face also.

  “I love you, dad,” Moss said.

  “I love you, too, Mossy.”

  “What is this?” Moss asked, looking around the room.

  “This is my life’s work,” his dad told him. “This is what I created and what they’ve bastardized.”

  “You uploaded your consciousness?” Moss asked, amazed at his father’s skills.

  “No, the ‘me’ standing before you is an AI construct based on my life experience. The brainwave scans in our implants are constantly running and analyzing. Everything I’ve seen and done factors into how I read moments and respond. I’m as close to a copy of myself as can exist.”

  “So, this isn’t real?”

  “No, not in the way I’m sure you want. I’m so sorry I never told you,” his dad said. Moss had never seen such sadness.

  “It’s all right. I was a kid. I know you just wanted what was best,” Moss said, and he was beginning to believe those words.

  “I’m so happy you understand. Burn took you in?”

  “He did.”

  “That’s great, and grandma?”

  “She died between when you left and now,” Moss told him. It didn’t matter that it was a program, he was happy to tell his father everything.

  “That’s too bad, she would have loved to see you now,” his dad said, a look of pride on his face.

  “I would have loved to have her, too. I feel so lost.”

  “I know. I wanted to leave you a message, but I knew the com
pany would find it,” his father said and began pacing around the room. Moss smiled; his dad had even programmed his small neuroses into this version of himself.

  “What happened to you? I have only vague memories,” Moss asked.

  “I don’t know, this system was created before then,” he explained. “I’m sure it didn’t end well for me.”

  “And mom?”

  “For her too. I wanted to protect her from this, just like you, but you know your mother,” he trailed off. “So, they erased the memories of what happened?”

  “Seems that way,” Moss admitted. He tried to shake the thought of what fate had befallen his parents from his head. He had seen so much death recently and picturing his parents meeting some violent end made him feel ill.

  “May actually be for the best,” his father said.

  “I just wish I had known enough to prepare me for all this,” Moss said.

  “I’m sure you are doing great,” his dad said, looking on him with pride.

  “I’m trying,” Moss said.

  “Your mom and I always knew you were capable of greatness.”

  “Thanks, dad.” Moss was overwhelmed by the moment. Spending his whole life thinking he would never see his parents again, it was an unbelievable gift to be standing before his father. “So, what are they doing?”

  “Ah,” his dad said. “The crux of it. I helped create this technology for the drudges, so they could read and react to their operators. So, you could ‘work with yourself’ as the catchphrase goes. But I soon realized they wanted more. The managers began asking questions which made me nervous. I began to understand that they wanted to use this to replace the employees.”

  “Replace us, how?” Moss asked, shaking his head with confusion.

  “They intend to upload these reflective AIs into the drudges and do away with their human counterparts.”

  “Do away with?” Moss asked though he was sure he knew what he meant.