MechTech: Your exo-suit was pretty lame, anyway, so I thought I’d give you a chance to build a new one. Make it black this time. Heat resistant.
Kid Synch: Hahaha. The Red Hand challenge? Anyone?
Generix: Worst idea ever. Not to mention we can’t figure out if it’s a set-up from Central. It’s a cloaked request.
MechTech: Nah, it’s legit. I checked its origins last night. Not from Central.
Kid Synch: Where then?
Generix: You know they’re not that stupid.
MechTech: Yeah, not dumb like you. Heh heh.
Generix: Hey.
Kid Synch: It seems like an easy job.
Generix: Tell me you’re not going to do it.
Kid Synch: No way. Capital offense and all.
MechTech: But the GLORY! All of the GLORY!!! Only the Great Kid Synch could possibly pull this off. And you get to claim a digi-pet of your choice. Yaar, they’re, like, so cute.
Generix: Now who’s the dumb one?
I don’t mention I’ve already hacked Solace twice and pranked Central by shutting down the Ring once for five whole seconds. The Ring’s software is near un-hackable, and anyone who even attempts it gets slapped with twenty transgressions and possible eviction from Central. I’m growing tired of my anonymity. My buddies know I’ve done a few things, but the specifics I’ve never told a soul. While I’ve come close to telling MechTech and Generix, I’ve never met them in person. You never meet underweb pals. For all I know they could be anyone. Keeping my felonies to myself is the best for now. Everyone talks big on the underweb. Anyway, the Mecha Wars is an undermarket game.
I hear a voice in the gathering space calling, “Good morning, Riz-Ali Singh. I sense a contaminant. Perhaps we should close the window and run the eco-filter?” Taz, the most troublesome bot in the world, buzzes around the flat. Must be ten to five.
Kid Synch: My nanny-bot just woke up. Gotta go.
I disengage from the underweb and burn my history, just as the bot wheels into my room with his round, white head permanently smiling and wide-eyed, the flat-screen on his chest flashing with touchscreen comms and instructions. The height of a small child, he has an unassuming quality about him, which is essential for all nanny-bots, so that humans lower their defenses and trust them. Taz seems basic, but I’m not fooled. He has extensions set for all sorts of emergencies, a fire extinguisher, medi-kit, even a talk therapy setting. I don’t have access to his system to know for sure what he does with the information he collects on me, but I have a few ideas.
“No need, Taz.” I cough and toss the ether smoke into my teacup, sliding the ignitor into my pocket, out of view.
“It seems your neural-synch is on deep-sleep mode still. Shall I turn it on for you before I perform the tests?”
“Um, I was just recalibrating,” I press the button in my temple and reestablish the full connection. Not like I can ever fully disconnect. “I’m ready.”
Taz rolls toward me and I stand still, my arms at my sides, head looking straight at my poster of Talvinder’s newest film, War. It doesn’t hurt, the crisscrossing beams of lasers he uses to X-ray my body for defects. When he’s done, I sit on the edge of my bed and hand him my arm. His needle is thin and I can’t even feel it anymore. One poke. He pulls the blood sample into his system and the screen on his chest flashes as it runs a report. Taz’s face is smiling the entire time. Definitely a design defect. It should be more interactive. No person is that happy all the time, or ever, really. I never see the results or exactly what I’m being tested for, but I assume infectious diseases and viruses, and genetic defects that may not have appeared during the Solace test. Not everyone gets the five-minute, daily once-over. My numbers were barely passing at best. This was part of the deal my mother struck with the SA to allow me to stay in Central.
Info-Run data spills down the right edge of my vision. Comms from the Minister on behalf of President Ravindra about the unrest building in the Narrows and more funding promised for the Narrows to clean it up. Another red alert about the new Z Fever report and how to stay clear of those showing symptoms . . . blue rash, tremors, and other things that turn my stomach. The GHO reports that it has appeared in three Provinces thus far. There’s more information about AllianceCon, and how the SA is so proud they won the chance to host it and show the world how well they’re doing with Solace. How they have something special they’re revealing during the conference. I bet—they’re going all out since it’s the SA’s last shot for additional funds from the PAC. They’d better win the marks or else they’ll just have to find another way to deal with the worst population problem in the world.
I shake my head. Well? We’re doing well? They sure know how to put on a strong front to the world and the PAC. If Solace and Central even appears to fail, the PAC will pull funding and redistribute our money to other Provinces that are stronger, more viable. It’s all a show. But one people actually believe.
As the data runs an update, I feel the skin on my scalp crawl. With each new comm, a nerve twitches, pinches on my scalp. I lean on my console and let my head fall heavy into my hands.
Don’t think of it. It will just make things worse. Stop.
But it comes anyway. I imagine my neural-synch is alive, embedded around my brain. Its tentacles growing like arms twisting around my temples. My hands tremble, eyes twitch with involuntary movements. Stop. Just stop. This is not a normal side effect of the neural-synch. I no longer tell the medical team about these quirks I have. I stand and let the thoughts dissolve. “Sometimes, to find the right solution, you need to relax into it, Riza, puttar,” I hear Kanwar Uncle’s soothing voice and see his face like a shadow.
“Sir, are you ill? May I check your—” Taz’s voice pulls me hurtling back to reality.
“No,” I push the bot away. “I’m alright. Just a, a . . . memory. Something you don’t know about.”
“Memories, yes, I do know those. Memories: the unconscious mind’s process of ordering and reordering . . .”
He always takes the romance out of things I find beautiful. I imagine what it would be like to toss the little nanny-bot from my window. There’d be a fine for littering probably, and it might actually hurt someone walking below. But it would be worth it.
“Taz, has my father responded yet?” Taz’s eyes light up green and he pauses.
“No messages from Mr. Singh. He is . . . away at a scientific research trip currently at the Space Colony.”
Mother has been on my case lately and I miss my father’s jokes. He hasn’t responded in a month. I know his work is important, but I hope he comes through, and soon.
My father purchased Taz before he went to Greenland. Like a bot would make it okay that my father chose a position in the PAC rather than staying with me. Mother says it was his way of leaving a piece of him with me. A nanny-bot for a teenager.
“Taz, play my last message from Anik Singh.”
Taz’s face goes blank and I hear my father’s bellowing voice laughing. “Too busy for your old man, nah? Puttar, son, it’s your father. It’s been so long that I’m sure you’ve forgotten me by now.” His laugh is a flurry of chuckles. “But do me a favor. Tell me how you are doing. The Colony is beautiful. I wish you could see what I see, looking down on Earth from such a distance. I’m looking down on you right now. Remember that. Don’t let your mother boss you around too much. Love you, Riza.”
“End of message, Riz-Ali.” Taz’s face returns to the ever-present smile.
“Make me breakfast, please,” I say.
Taz wheels out of the room and into the main kitchen area.
I pull on my white tunic and twist my long black hair into a braid, and head to the dining room. Sidharth is already watching the Info-Run on the holo-screen in the common area at full volume. He’s dressed like a Solace director rather than the intern he is. His hair is shiny and combed, smelling like the newest genetic scent that should be pleasing to others around him. Everyone but me, obviously. I’ve lived her
e for months, but my hate for my flatmate grows. The kid is nothing if not perfect. And a damn fool. I picked him out of a list of flatmates my mother made because he was straight-up the opposite of me. I didn’t want to be friends with whoever lived with me. I knew it wouldn’t end well. People leave, disagreements turn to resentment. This way we’d never even pretend to like each other. And it was fun to verbally spar with him. Mother was pleased at my choice. It was clear she’d rather have him as a son than me. His neural-synch is chrome, the newest cover. Mine is a matte, faded copper because I’d rather have it disappear completely.
“Good morning,” he says.
I nod, once.
“What’s that smell?” Sid’s nose scrunches.
I smile. “I don’t smell anything aside from your cologne.” I laugh.
“You know ether smokes are illegal, right?”
“Are they now?” I say and pick up the fresh cup of tea Taz holds out to me on the white tray.
“Yeah, but you already knew that, yaar.”
“I’d rather be educated by your vast knowledge of the world, Sid. It’s so astounding. First in your class. Youngest in the training center.” I puff out a laugh.
“You wanna learn something? This summit is all for show.” He stares intently at the holo-screen. “Liu has to get some courage if he’s going to actually lead the planet. No Province should be forced to give away their rare earths to have them redistributed among the other Provinces.”
“What’s mad is that we’re still trying to solve the problem that got us into the war in the first place. And to get enough materials we’ll have to make it all the way to the Kuiper Belt. The few provinces that have pollution credits should process them for the rest of the world. We shouldn’t compete against each other. If we don’t work together, we’ll be on the edge of war again.”
“Now you sound like the opposition. Why don’t you go a work for the Planet Watch Group? Or go plant some trees in the Eastern District on the border of Asian Province.” He laughs, rolls his eyes.
“Planet Watch has a point. We need more than one neocity to house the population in the SA. They need to begin building the others right away. It’s madness. They promised four, one for each district.”
Sid doesn’t even hear me, but switches the Info-Run to Celebrity Insider instead, and pictures of models, actors and other wealthy faces populate the screen. He sits at the white dining table and Taz brings us breakfast: boiled eggs, fruit, bread—same every day. White linens, white table, white marble floors, the lack of color is enough to make me want to burn the whole place down just to give it a tint.
“Talvinder looks happier since he got back from Ahimsa wellness center. Check it,” Sid speaks, with his mouth full. Tal’s career in film blew up the past year. He’s in everything these days. “Has that rebooted glow they talk about.”
“Maybe you should go. Go drink brainwashing smoothies, get your soul-cleansing enemas, whatever you think will make living easier,” I say.
“Nah, my friend went. It’s not all brainwashing. He was a little shaken up when he came back, but then smooth sailing.”
Sid chews loudly. I push my food around the plate.
“Shaken up?”
“He wouldn’t talk about what happened. His parents put him there because he was sneaking to Strata One a lot. They didn’t want him to get booted from Central.”
“That place is messed up. No connection, sign your life away, come back chill. They have to do serious damage to your psyche there somehow. It can’t be just a massage, beach, and juice.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Sid scarfs the rest of his food into his mouth. “You coming?”
“Yeah, where else would I be going?” I say.
Taz buzzes. “Your mother, Shiraz Singh, is on the comm, Riz-Ali.” My fork slips out of my hand onto the marble floor.
Sid smirks. “Better get that. Don’t want to keep the Minister of Communications waiting.”
I flip him off as he closes the door behind himself. “Taz, connect.”
A screen projects from the center of the dining table and my mother appears like a goddess, with all these disembodied hands around her face. Her hair and makeup people are fussing with her as she speaks to me. “Oh, good morning, beta, are you eating? You look so thin,” she says. “Or sick. I can’t have my son starve. Maybe I should send a medic . . .”
“No, I’m eating, see?” I show her the plate in front of me. “But you could program Taz to show a little more finesse in the kitchen.” I want to scream at her. That I’d found a clue. That I was right all along. That Uncle wasn’t a traitor like she said. And for a second, I forget she hated him at the end, and nearly tell her. But my mouth clamps down on my words like a trap.
“Look,” she moves closer to the screen, pushes the hands away and whispers. “You need to take the auto-inject today. It’s the fifteenth.”
That’s what Mother needs, a kid who doesn’t fully integrate with the neural-synch. Usually, Solace-approved parents give birth to Solace-passing children. I passed, but Solace’s neural-synch has never been completely compatible. Or, perhaps, I am just not compliant or compatible with the technology—maybe I just don’t want to be.
There is something off about Mother’s appearance. Just in that one instant, she looks at me, really looks at me, and she seems afraid. I watch her face intently as a gen-bot the size and shape of a metal beetle crawls across her nose, tightening a wrinkle with the light of a laser under its belly. Though gen-bots are commonplace, they always turn my stomach. “And remember, it’s the last day of your internship at Solace, so try to not mess it up. You’re heading to work for the SA government next, in the Western District. It’s the only position I could find for you.” Her glare has the venom of a thousand vipers.
“Yes, Maa, I know, I know. We’ve talked about this for weeks.”
She glares at me, through me. “Don’t mess this one up.”
Bile rises in my gut. “Got it, Maa.” Last day, last chance to access Solace, and do something really risky to connect with the Red Hand and find out the truth about my uncle. See if they can tell me what their Commander knows about him.
“And don’t take any additional edits. I know you’ve been busy in the underweb and it’s not good to try to optimize further when you aren’t calibrating properly yet. Be a good boy. No messing this up. Your father is settling in with his new position and I’m finally getting somewhere here.”
“Anything else?” How does she know I was on the underweb? I know she monitors me, but how much she can see I can’t determine.
Another voice says, “It’s a big day here. How about some congratulations for your dear mother?”
“Congratulations? For what?”
Another face enters the screen from behind mother. Geena. She’s been working with Mother for years, and has a son younger than me, so she’s always been a go-between, a messenger of spite. “Her big announcement about the next campaign for Solace. It’s called Shaanti. The rollout is soon, with President Ravindra herself. I think you’ll be impressed.” Geena raises her eyebrows as if to say this is important, acknowledge your mother. I hate her. She probably hates me too.
“Congratulations, Maa.”
“I’d better go. And remember, give your father space. He’s very busy.”
It’s been like this since Kanwar Uncle died. I bite the inside of my cheek and close my eyes, imagining a different world where I can sneeze without signaling an alert.
“Riza?” The hands of the makeup and hair techs return to the screen and continue to apply. Each stroke makes her look more and more beautiful. One wand adds elasticity to her skin, the other brightens. One transdermal laser delivers an edit that adds a flush to her cheeks and another deletes a new freckle. Mother loves her beauty fixes.
“Achcha, Maa. Thanks,” I say.
Before I can say anything more, the comms disconnects. A whirl of giggles and chatter from her design team end the call.
“Shall I bring you the immunosuppressant auto-injection device, sir?” Taz asks.
“Yes.” The bright light in the penthouse buzzes. I click my ignitor in my pocket over and over again.
Taz brings a cold, metallic tube filled with medicine that will allow me to continue to use the neural-synch for another month at least. My body has rejected it since installation last year. My neural speed tests are barely passing. The device isn’t meant for me, but Mother won’t hear of it. She says it’s for my benefit, but I know it’s for hers. If the Minister of Communications had a child who didn’t make the cut, it will be an all-out embarrassment, and I’d get shipped out of Central with a one-way ticket to anywhere but here, fast.
The silver medicine rolls back and forth in the tube-like liquid metal. No, not today. I shove the medicine deep into the back of my desk drawer and pull out a nano-optimization drug called THink instead, a small syringe with a tiny metal dot in the tube, suspended in a purple gel. I bought THink off the underweb weeks ago. If I were to take them at the same time, I’d probably die of a heart attack. Today, I need to be able to match Solace to meet the challenge. I’ll come back for the auto-inject later, after THink wears off and exits my body. I take a breath and stick the needle into my thigh. I wonder when it’ll take effect and hope I didn’t buy a dud.
I flick on the ignitor and a bright white heat appears. The curtains take to the flame like paper, definitely a construction shortcut. Eighteen steel beams on every floor, tinted windows, climate control—and thin-ass curtains.
Rise of the Red Hand Page 5
