Cyberpunk

by Victoria Blake

  come out. He brushed away the flies that had descended on Mouse. He

  checked the charge on his battery pack: 18%. He thought of who might come

  looking for him and could think of no one. His parents would think he was

  high on sweetwine or shuttered on kek or plugged into some dirt port, lying

  against a shed wall somewhere. No one would believe he was here, guarding

  Mouse. Somebody might come looking for Mouse, he thought, and it was a

  hope he held onto.

  He leaned over and put his ear tentatively against her chest, to listen to her

  heart, but the soft and shockingly pleasant give of her breast so tantalized

  and alarmed him that he jumped up and took a step away, afraid she’d wake

  with him pressed there. He thought he’d heard a heartbeat, but he couldn’t

  be sure. His cheek and ear were on fire with the touch, buzzing. Red-faced,

  he turned away and spent a quarter hour in the trash, trying to do his job. He

  found a yellow rain slicker with holes in the elbows and put it on. He found

  a black bra and put it in the raincoat pocket and then took it out and threw

  it back on the ground. A minute later he re-pocketed it. He found an

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  BENJAMIN PARZYBOK

  advertisement for a body-modification and live-tattoo clinic and he studied

  the photos intently, imagining how the tattoos would move.

  After a while he recovered the car door Mouse had found and propped it

  so that it shielded her bare arm. He found a dead beach ball and folded it

  under her head. He was hungry. There was nothing new here. Any edible

  food-trash was kilometers away at the trucks.

  He sat cross-legged in front of the nacker and began to tinker in its belly,

  but without tools it was slow-going. The fuel cell was in a hardshell that

  needed wrenches to get at. With the tharpoon he got access to a circuit

  board that had a number of chips—including the GPS, but he couldn’t disable

  it without breaking the whole thing, and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  It was too pretty and new and he wanted it for his own. The last time he’d

  done that haunted him. Nackanigmo, they called him: nacker fucker, or: he who, armed with a nacker, fucks everything up.

  This time he was careful to check Mouse’s pulse at her wrist. He circled his

  fingers around it and thought it was the most wonderful wrist ever. He

  wondered at a charged bolt that strong. Maybe she’d wake and be something

  else, Sparto’s perma-drool on her chin.

  There was a sunset cast in the smoke of the distant city, and he braved

  standing on a rise to look for the others and to watch for a moment. The

  color stretched red deep across the sky and it made him feel grand and deeply

  afraid. What they called the wall was not far off, the cliff at the dump’s edge.

  Over that cliff down an immense slope was the old river canyon the city had

  filled long ago. There were rumors—stories the pepenadoras told their

  children—of what came up the wall at night. Pico shivered. Lepers. The dogs

  (Dog Organized Guard System) would come too. Any pepenador with half a

  smart would be out of the dump by nightfall. He knew there was hardly a

  fellow pepenador who considered him in this class of half smarts.

  He wished he had some sweetwine and checked every last pocket for some

  crumbs of kek to numb his brain.

  Pico combed through the nacker’s circuits and disconnected a few others.

  Some he knew what they did—a long-range network chip, which was

  probably dumping diagnostic data into the air—others that just looked like

  they might cause him trouble later on. These he wrapped carefully in

  whatever he could find and put in his belt pockets. He’d look at them later.

  074

  EL PEPENADOR

  The last nacker he’d opened was with his best friend Suto.

  Pico had installed a hacked instruction set into their captured bot and

  restarted it. The nacker booted into a ten-minute rampage, crashing through

  tin shacks, its tentacle bolting whatever was in its way, including not a few

  pepenadors. Suto and he chased it down until it turned and pinned Suto to the wall, frying him in a long, slow electrocution. Pico destroyed the machine with his father’s axe, but Suto was burnt inside and through, and Pico was to blame, and besides himself, no one blamed him more than Mouse, Suto’s sister.

  Still, they’d been close once. Almost a gang, the three of them. She was

  older and smarter and sassier than they were—not their leader, not exactly,

  but were she to lead they’d follow. Suto because she was his sister and she’d

  led the two of them through a history of rough times that Pico didn’t know

  the half of. Pico followed because Mouse was the most interesting thing he’d

  ever come across.

  Pico swallowed a foul-tasting half-sob and looked toward her downed body.

  He got up and paced between Mouse and the nacker, wishing he were on his

  way home, that he was at his parents’. He pulled on Mouse’s arms and

  dragged her a short way but she was too heavy and too much a deadweight to

  carry more than a few yards. Besides, he wanted that nacker. He’d hide it

  away until he got it right this time.

  At Mouse’s side he stroked her black hair in the half-light and wondered if

  she’d be more comfortable in another position. He turned her on her side

  and then he saw the scar at the back of her neck. A thin, white line in the

  shape of a comic smile. Mouse had a wi.n, he realized. Implanted in her neck.

  Had to be. Only rich people had these. Chinga, there were probably two

  circuits spouting diagnostics into the net, the nacker’s and Mouse’s. Then he

  remembered he’d been jamming the GPS, at least. What was the chica doing with her own wi.n? He felt a quick stab of jealousy. He didn’t have even one

  single mod.

  He looked around and above and wondered if they were being watched.

  From what he knew, wi.ns beaconed when there was trouble. It wasn’t just an

  access node. He stood up and looked at Mouse from head to toe. The wi.n

  made him unsure if he knew her at all.

  Darkness was coming on fast and he shook Mouse.

  Oh, she said, a distant, quiet sound, as if from a voice box deep in her lungs.

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  BENJAMIN PARZYBOK

  You’re awake! he said. A nacker got you, but I got the nacker. I killed it!

  I’ve been waiting here with you all day.

  Mouse coughed and said nothing.

  You got to wake up. Come on!

  Pico? she said.

  Yes, it’s me, Pico, güey. It’s getting dark! If you get up right now we can still go back.

  You’re on my arm.

  Chinga! he leapt off her arm and for a brief moment was overcome with

  self-hate.

  Mouse moved her arm to her chest. I don’t feel good, she said.

  I took it apart. After he said this he felt sick to his stomach. I mean disabled it.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him and he had no idea what she might

  say next. He held his breath and stared back, more in love than he thought

  possible, more ready to be crushed by what she had to say. She was older than

  he was, nineteen to his seventeen, and as the look went on he realized he

  didn’t stand a chance with her. They stayed like that for a few moments, and

  he did
n’t dare avert his eyes.

  I can’t see, she said finally.

  Pico looked away and into the last of the reddened sky and had a terrible

  feeling. They would not make it out of the dump and back to the pepenadores tonight. If he ran, he could make it back now, but he could not leave her.

  He found her hand and squeezed it and she held onto it tightly.

  I’m scared, she said.

  It’s going to be alright, he said, though he did not believe it. Your eyes will come back.

  Listen, Mouse said.

  Pico listened and could hear the faraway howls of the dogs. He shuddered.

  The sun was gone and the light was being sucked from the sky fast. It’d be

  dark by the time Mouse could walk.

  Dogs, she said.

  I know, Pico said.

  You shouldn’t have stayed, Mouse said. Why are you even here?

  He didn’t know what she meant. He was so used to hearing get lost that he assumed it was that , and felt sorry for himself.

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  EL PEPENADOR

  But you would have died, he said.

  Now we’ll both die.

  Pico heard the rapid approach of a nacker close by, the skittering hydraulics

  in high gear, retreating toward where they lived at night, some recharging

  bunker at the far edge. The nacker wouldn’t stop for them now. The dogs, better equipped to adapt with a higher proportion of biological material, had taken

  over the night. Grudges and spite were natural to native brains, and though

  both were created by Basucorp, the dogs held a species-wide grudge against the

  nackers. Found at night, a pack of dogs would tear a nacker limb from limb.

  A moment later, the dump was immersed in darkness.

  You move?

  Mouse slowly sat up and rubbed the back of her neck. I feel rotten. The

  whole back of my head tingles. I can only see a dim light.

  That’s all there is, dim light.

  Like I said, Mouse said.

  Well you should be rested up for first watch.

  Listen, I didn’t mean like I sounded, Mouse said.

  Pico sat down next to the disassembled nacker and felt around in the dark.

  He checked his battery pack and realized he still had it plugged into the

  jammer, and that the charge was down to only 6%. He swore.

  You have any juice?

  No, Mouse said. Must have got fried.

  Chinga.

  You hear me before?

  I heard, he said.

  Thanks, you know?

  Sure.

  There was another chilling howl beyond them somewhere.

  It’s cold, Mouse said.

  Pico wrestled up the tentacle of the nacker from underneath. In theory, it

  was still connected into its battery pack. He plugged his light into his own

  pack for a moment and shielded it so that it wouldn’t be seen beyond where

  he was working. The wires were encased in carbon fiber, but logic would have

  it there was a switch of sorts in there somewhere. That someone could power

  its lightning strike. But he did not have the tools or the light.

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  BENJAMIN PARZYBOK

  Mouse came and sat next to him and her warm leg rested against his.

  What should we do?

  She shrugged. You got something sharp?

  He nodded, I guess. Tharpoon. Hand me yours, I’ll sharpen it.

  She passed him her tharpoon and he ran the tip of it over his whetstone

  shard until the edge caught at his thumb.

  Now what, he said.

  Then we stay quiet, she said. Stay warm and stay quiet. When morning

  comes we take your bot home. She huddled in closer and whispered that she

  did not feel right and touched the back of her neck.

  Pico tentatively put his arm around her and let his hand rest on the bicep

  of her goosebumped bare arm and she moved into his embrace.

  I’m scared, he whispered and she shushed him, but it was not unfriendly.

  He held absolutely still then, wary that anything he might say may disrupt

  their pseudo embrace. But he couldn’t help himself, the nacker in front of

  them haunted him and he wanted to explain it, to tell her that if he could

  only fix it up maybe the others would forgive him, that he knew he could do

  it, but when he turned to tell her she surprised him with a kiss and he kissed

  her back.

  After a while she pushed him backward into the trash and climbed on top

  and they stayed curled like so, keeping each other warm. The putrid smell of

  the dump combined with the smell of her, and Pico thought maybe he could

  die like this after all. He was so happy to touch her skin. Around her, he felt he could see a soft electric-blue glow, electron residue perhaps, or it was only his eyes playing tricks.

  Then the dogs came. At first it was just the sound of a scrabbling out in the

  dark, and the sound moved fast, circling about them. Pico and Mouse stood

  and gripped their tharpoons, pointing the ends toward the roving sound.

  There was a dim light from the city far away, where real people were, in their

  real houses, doing. He didn’t know what the pendejos did. He could feel Mouse shivering next to him, and this alone made him want to run at the

  dogs, stupid as it was. Güey, he thought. I don’t want to die. He felt like crying. I have a nacker and almost a girlfriend.

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  EL PEPENADOR

  You got any charge for light? Mouse asked.

  Maybe couple minutes, but it’d just call the rest.

  There was a low growl off to Pico’s right and he crouched with the tharpoon.

  The growl was followed by a series of eerie barks, answered by many others.

  Dios, Pico whispered. Mouse, he said.

  It’s okay, Pico.

  The sound of dogs’ feet scrabbling was intense now. They had no idea how

  many were out there.

  Pico heard one come close and Mouse swung her tharpoon at the sound

  and connected. They heard a howl of rage and other dogs answered, a

  terrifying chorus of sound. Then one got a jaw’s grip around his tharpoon

  arm. He yelled and punched at it with his other fist but its hold was strong. It pulled him over and he heard Mouse behind him fending off another. On the

  ground another one got a bite-hold on his shoe. Another tore into his thigh

  and he kicked and screamed and clawed.

  An intense flash lit the terrain suddenly. They saw a dozen or so dogs frozen

  in the instantaneous light. In the ensuing blackness, there were two shots fired and an answering canine howl of pain. The dog biting Pico’s thigh yipped away

  into the night. The one on Pico’s arm got suddenly light, its jaws loosening, and when Pico went to punch it off found that only its head remained, dripping

  blood and wire. It slipped to the ground with a soft, wet thud.

  Hello? Mouse said, her voice a lonely human sound in the dark, afraid and

  hopeful.

  They won’t trouble you now, a woman answered.

  Pico tenderly touched his thigh and his hands came away slick. His arm

  burned and ached and felt cold. I’m hurt, he said.

  Who are you? Mouse said.

  My name is Lucy. The voice was close now. Reach out your hand, Pico.

  I can’t see, Pico said. Light?

  No lights, Lucy said. She took hold of his hand and slowly placed something

  on his forearm. He could feel it grab hold of his arm hairs and then it crawled along his body.

  He screamed and demanded to know what it was.

  It went under his shirt and crawled
quickly and creepily around his torso

  and he slapped at it with his hands but it was too fast.

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  BENJAMIN PARZYBOK

  Don’t, Lucy said. Leave it be. It’s a Senti, it will seal your wounds.

  The Senti was in his pants now and he jumped, despite the pain in his

  thigh, and then it was at his leg wound and he had to resist the violent urge

  to brush it off. It gripped him there and he screamed again, and then as it dug into his flesh he retched. A moment later, he felt a cool ooze and his thigh

  went numb. Oh, he groaned.

  See? the woman’s voice said.

  He could hear her wrestling with some kind of gear.

  My nacker, he said, it’s mine.

  I’ll carry it, she said.

  How do you know my name, Pico said.

  Your friend. She is leaking data.

  Really? Pico looked toward Mouse in the dark but she did not respond. He

  remembered the scar at the back of her neck and puzzled at it all over again.

  You were jamming GPS, correct?

  Yes, he said.

  And then you weren’t.

  My battery ran out.

  I suspected there was a wreck in the dump, a downed helicopter, but instead

  it was you. The helicopters will be here soon, though.

  The Senti slinked under his clothes to his arm wound and he bent over and

  breathed through the initial stab of pain this time.

  Let’s go, Lucy said.

  Lucy walked fast in the dark and they heard the loose limbs of the nacker

  clack together as she went. They struggled behind her. He felt like he could hear others out around him in the night, strange sounds that his imagination morphed into the most terrible things. He reached out and clasped hands with Mouse.

  He could feel her stumbling, the shock hangover leaving her woozy. He wrapped

  his good arm around her shoulder and they walked tentatively as a single unit

  over the compressed trash. Pico began to work up what he would tell his parents, and fantasized about Mouse, the memory of being close to her in the night fresh.

  She had secrets. He tried to remember if Suto had a similar scar.

  Lucy stopped suddenly and they pulled up beside her. They could see just

  her outline in the dark, a deep black shape against a deep black night.

  From here, she said, the way is down and the trail is treacherous.

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  EL PEPENADOR

  Down? Pico said, and the word came out as more of a terrified bark. They