by A W Wang
As if agreeing with my prognosis, his body shivers, and he grimaces, wiping a sweaty hand over his forehead. “No, New Austin.”
“You’re going to fight me on this even if you die?”
Instead of answering, he pushes his hand into a pocket and pulls out a sealed envelope. “Promise that if anything happens to me, you’ll go to New Austin and follow these instructions.”
“This is what you were doing at Balthazar’s desk? Besides getting evidence?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
“Like I told you, something you don’t want, but something you need.” He holds the parchment up. “Now promise you’ll do this, no matter what happens. Even if I die.”
As gloom infects my mood, I grasp at the paper.
He keeps his grip. “You can’t open this until you get back to New Austin.”
Against my better judgment, I reply, “I promise.”
His fingers open, and I put the paper into my pocket, hating the mystery.
Then, overriding my budding sense of dread, I plot a course to New Austin on the display. After I engage the thrust, the craft gently lifts from the train. I turn to Jonathon. “I’m trusting your judgment on this.”
He doesn’t respond, only choosing to gaze at the fast-moving landscape outside the fake windows.
A drawer opens from the front panel.
“This is formulated to keep your body operating at peak condition,” the AI explains.
I pull out a gooey tube and frown. It’s filled with a blue liquid.
“You’re going to need that,” Jonathon says.
I bite back a reply. It’s the first thing he’s said in this whole conversation that isn’t shrouded in mystery.
Although my stomach rumbles from hunger, I return the tube to the drawer and push it closed. For better or worse, I don’t need this remembrance from my virtual life.
Then, still feeling unease from the ill-advised detour, I open up the throttle, and the craft leaps toward the place of my rebirth.
As the browns and greens of the Texas landscape blur below, only the blinking lights and changing map display alter the stillness in the cockpit.
Jonathon takes slow breaths, his eyes lidded.
So far, we’ve been fortunate. There’s no pursuit, but how long can that last?
A jagged, ruined skyline pokes over the horizon. A moment later, the AI posts the label “Austin” in yellow holographic letters on the windshield.
“Have you ever been here?” Jonathon asks in a labored voice.
Surprised by the question, I enlarge the map display and reply, “When I was young, my family visited.” I point to a green patch in the city proper. “I remember running around one of the parks, near Waller Creek. That was before my leg got busted up in the accident.”
His gaze flicks to my lower half.
The agony and embarrassment of the injury flash through my thoughts, and I shift uncomfortably.
A warning sounds, and the AI outlines hills on our right.
I bank to avoid the obstacles. “I think the city was still intact when I entered the program.” I sigh. “That was fourteen years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Victoria told me,” I reply with a shrug. “I guess things were only starting to get bad at that point.”
As the ship nears, the jagged shapes scrawled against the blue sky expand into individual buildings and neighborhoods.
Jonathon clenches his jaw while he points to burned patches of ground that used to be houses. “The riots started here in the suburbs around ten years ago.”
While we pass mounds of rubble and blackened frames, I try to imagine the terror coming from hungry, frenzied masses roaming the now deserted streets.
Sterile pictures pop up from the data download.
“I’m sure it was pretty bad,” I say, hoping to sound sympathetic. “Why not rebuild?”
“The idea of huge metropolises was dying with all the virtual reality stuff that allowed people to live further apart. And it was easier to forget about the past.”
A fact floats into my consciousness. “So, the new city being built to the south was renamed to New Austin?”
“New Austin sounds a lot better than Southernmost Tip.”
I nod.
In a barely audible voice, he says, “I was here when everything happened.”
Startled by the revelation, I keep silent as the ruins of the once beautiful cityscape spill past—crumpled remains of houses, deserted streets overflowed by greenery from overgrown parks, fallen buildings leaning on their neighbors, and even the dried creek bed where I once played.
Jonathon sighs. “In the beginning, I was one of the lucky ones. The government considered my job critical, so my family never went hungry.
“Things were bad, but the politicians in charge kept saying they had everything under control. Then 2055 rolled around, and one night… it all fell apart. I guess it’s true what they say: Any society is only three missed meals from anarchy. Enraged people started protesting in the suburbs, and by the time they stormed into the city, it was a full-blown riot.
“The thing was, this happened in dozens of places overnight. Not just here, but across the globe too.”
My data download brings up pictures of destruction: Paris, London, Moscow, New York, Shanghai, and every other major metropolis from around the world.
“Why did it happen?” I ask.
His eyes sadden at the question. “Too many promises were made that couldn’t be kept. Too much waste and corruption in the system. Too much debt to pay off. Too much spent on defense systems. Too little to go around…”
I don’t press him after his voice trails off. The whys aren’t important; there’s only the here and now.
When he blows out a breath a minute later, I ask softly, “What about your family?”
“The military came and got us out—me, my wife, and two children, along with a bunch of other scientists. We had to use ground transport to get to a landing area. The trip was awful. All the fires, the burning buildings. The bodies…”
I don’t disturb him as he gathers strength to finish.
After the stealth ship flies through the heart of downtown, he says, “Afterward, the healthcare system got overloaded…”
I frown. The rationed healthcare that forced my husband and me into finding other cures for my terminal illness from around the world, which led to our money problems, which led to the Ten Sigma Program.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Jonathon continues, “There was something in the smoke. Both my daughter and wife got sick afterward and died. Later on, the Liberation Front killed my son in a raid.”
“Is that why you shot at Flying Eagle in the hallway?”
He nods.
Silent moments pass as we leave the city and cross the Colorado River.
When the scarred buildings recede over the horizon, he adds, “After that, the program became my family. And now, that’s done too.”
From being in the same situation, I return a knowing nod, wondering if my husband died in one of the riots before the great cataclysm and what befell the rest of my relatives.
“You’re lucky,” he says.
“Why’s that?”
He flails his hand behind us. “Because you missed all that.”
I clench my jaw to bite back a surge of anger. “I wish these things hadn’t happened to you or your family. I’m sure things were bad here, but I fought through the entirety of the Ten Sigma Program.” Remembrances of a thousand wounds enter my mind—my insides spilling over the street, my leg being shattered by a bullet, breaking my arm so I had something sharp to kill the bald giant with…
My voice rises, “A lot of people died around me. A lot of them were my friends. And I had to do terrible things to get out of there.”
I think of Syd and Suri and the blue liquid.
“Some…” I pause, shaking my head. “Most of the things I did, I’d rather
forget.”
When he doesn’t answer, I stifle my fury. In a quiet voice, I say, “Those bloodstains are never coming off my hands.” My eyes moisten as I suck down an angry breath. “And now, everything I fought for is gone.”
No response comes.
I grab his chin.
His eyelids flutter as his head lolls.
“You can’t lose consciousness. Wake up!”
Fresh blood seeps through the bandages.
“Jonathon? Jonathon?”
Forty-Three
After the ship touches down in a sequestered clearing, I shut off the engines and haul a pale, weakening Jonathon outside.
Past a swath of trees a hundred meters away, bright sunlight shines on Gray Rock, Texas, one of many small towns that sprouted up during the exodus from the great cities. The modern two and three-level structures, built from modular, ubiquitous gray cubes, imply the usual electronic surveillance over the inhabitants. However, I chose this place because the care center is close to the boundary, and I hope to carry Jonathon over the short distance without too much trouble.
At which point, I’ll use my ten sigma powers of persuasion to do whatever’s necessary to get him fixed.
In preparation for that moment, I pilfer the armory of the stolen craft. I slip a holstered pistol around my thigh and stuff a couple of EM grenades into one pocket. In the other, I put a communicator for alerts from the AI along with a few reloads. For concealment, I wrap a cloak from the ship’s stores over Jonathon and drape another over myself, adjusting the hood to show as little of my face as possible.
After a deep breath, I cradle him in my arms and hurry from the clearing.
Pebbles crunch and twigs snap under my rushed steps as I scramble through the trees, abandoning stealth for speed. At the edge of the woodland, I stop behind a line of shrubs twenty meters from the town.
Although little moves in the streets or behind the blocky windows of the nearby housing, surveillance cameras pose too much of a risk—I have to assume hostile AIs are scanning for images of Jonathon and me.
With closed eyes, I spend a minute querying my data dump for an electronic schematic of the area.
Moments later, a hazy blue image appears in my thoughts, highlighting the locations of any watchful electronics.
I cut down the tree line, which edges close to a row of two-story units. When we enter a blind spot, I charge across and duck into a shallow side entryway, twisting to peek at the next hurdles.
In a poor parody of what was New Austin, scattered holograms flare against the black and gray backdrop. At the center of a traffic circle, fake water shoots in elaborate patterns from a fake fountain, while digital statues with perfectly chiseled bodies change poses at the nearby corners.
Nobody is watching the entertainment. Except for automated vehicles delivering goods to a few homes, the narrow streets are empty and the mostly bland vicinity quiet.
Disappointed with the lack of distractions, I bite my lip, considering the best way to get to the care center.
Jonathon coughs. “Is this New Austin?” he says weakly.
“No, it’s not.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Getting you help. You’re not going to make it.”
“I thought we agreed…”
“We did. But I took a second vote when you passed out, and ‘getting help’ won.”
“You promised…”
I fight the urge to throttle him. “I’m saving your life.”
Instead of putting up an argument, his head lolls as he again fades into unconsciousness.
Selecting the best of the crappy options, I tilt my head down and wrap the lower half of the hood over my mouth. As I hustle toward the flashing first-aid sign two intersections away, figures move behind the windows lining either side of the street. I slow to a sedate pace. A cloaked person carrying someone is conspicuous, but I’d rather draw idle curiosity with a normal walk rather than the suspicious attention a faster than humanly possible sprint would generate.
Cameras spy from the tip of the fake fountain, and I trot behind a large delivery van to cross the open circle. With more electronic eyes watching from ahead, I shift positions to follow behind the rear bumper. When the van makes a turn, I resume a slower pace until a passenger car with dark-tinted windows rolls past, heading toward the hospital. I crouch and jog alongside the smaller vehicle.
As we arrive at our destination, I pivot and charge up the front stairs.
The double doors open into a lobby with a bland, white decor. Two nurses sit behind the check-in station, while a couple of information kiosks occupy the far corner. Five rows of five seats fill the remaining area.
I snort.
The eight people waiting for care all wear visor-helmets and are lost in virtual worlds.
Although annoyed at the notion, I breathe easier because nobody wants to see anything past their faces.
More importantly, my nape isn’t tingling. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, which is the best I could have hoped for, considering the circumstances of the coup. Victoria is still consolidating power. But with her ability, how long can this status quo last?
A dark-haired nurse steps from behind the counter and approaches. “I’ll need an ID card.”
I brush past her wide form and plow through the double doors to the infirmary. While she screeches in the background for assistance, I march down a broad, white corridor. To each side, patient rooms sit with flat holograms of occupant IDs and vital statistics displayed next to the doorways.
Nausea grips my stomach, and I wrinkle my nose. The sterile scents and soft beeps remind me too much of my last stay in a medical center.
Where I officially died and entered the Ten Sigma Program.
I huff. At least this place was built as a hospital and not converted from a ratty warehouse. And instead of squalid conditions inside cubicles made from cheap partitions, the patients here have modular rooms created from ubiquitous white plastic panels as well as clean sheets.
The nurse chases us, yelling, with two burly orderlies in tow.
I increase my pace, dodging a motor chair and then a coffin-sized gurney-pod. When I reach the emergency ward, I shove through wide double doors and enter a long windowless room. To both sides of the aisle sit horseshoe-shaped alcoves holding sophisticated medical equipment.
As surprised staff and visitors glance over, I lower my head and march to the first vacant unit. After I gently set Jonathon on the bed, I yank at the privacy curtains to block the view of any overhead cameras or curious onlookers.
Before I can connect the sheets, the reception nurse blasts into the room, breathless, and makes a beeline to me. Her hand parts the curtains. “There’s a waiting line and procedures to follow, and you will comply with all the rules.”
“We only need a little help. Then we’ll leave.”
Not used to non-cooperation, she grabs my cloak.
I remove her grip by pinching a nerve bundle near her wrist.
Her eyes blaze with fury, and when I release her hand, she backs away and snaps her fingers. “Move these people out, now!”
The two overpowered orderlies step from behind her. “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.
I back up, not wanting to hurt anyone but willing to do what’s necessary for my friend. “I don’t want trouble, but I just need to get this man some medical attention,” I say calmly while raising my hands.
The men respond by stepping to either side of me and reaching to secure my arms.
Both react with glacial speed when I take a quick half-step and flick a finger into the first man’s Adam’s apple and knuckle jab the second in the solar plexus.
A moment passes before their bodies realize that air is important, and they go down gasping.
I advance on the nurse, who shuffles backward and stammers in wide-eyed bewilderment.
A man in blue scrubs under a white lab coat rushes past the curtains. “What’s going on here?”
He glances down. “Dressed like this, I better be.”
Unimpressed with the attempt at humor, I grab him by the collar and drag him to Jonathon. “Fix him.”
“Relax,” he says, trying to straighten. “There are a few things to do first. You’ll—”
I pull away Jonathon’s cloak. “Any admin stuff can wait.”
He lifts Jonathon’s shirt, examining the wound. “How did this happen?”
“Is that information necessary, now?”
As he shakes his head, the reception nurse pokes her head past his shoulder. “Is everything alright? Do you want me to get—”
He waves in dismissal. “I’m doing surgery. We’ll log this in after I’m finished, Emelda.”
Groans come from the fallen orderlies.
I reach down and assist the hapless men to their feet, mumbling an apology.
After their legs steady, I usher them past the curtain and into the aisle with the nurse, who sends me a glare.
When I return a calm stare, her posture wilts, and the trio wanders away, grumbling.
Way to not attract attention.
I roll my eyes and snap the curtains shut.
When I step back into the alcove, the doctor asks, “What did he get shot with?”
“A 6.8mm armor-piercing round from close range.”
After rolling Jonathon to the side, he says, “There’s no exit wound, and the bullet most likely fragmented off a rib. It’s pretty bad.”
“Do you need any other information?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I’ll have to report this.”
“Take care of the injury first. Then fill out as many reports as you want.”
“Fair enough,” he says, nodding.
After he opens a cabinet with supplies and puts on a mask, I ask, “Can you make sure he can wake up at any time? We might need to leave in a hurry.”
He pulls flat surgical units from the surrounding consoles over the bed. “This is going to take some time. There are a lot of internal injuries, but only a local anesthetic is required.”
Thankful for minor miracles, I step aside as he sets up a blood transfusion.
A multi-colored hologram of Jonathon’s innards flares from a long silver device hovering over his abdomen.
