Cyber Witch

by Eddie R. Hicks

  “Yeah, because it hit the wall,” Marcus said.

  “No, they had a telepath with them, and you know that, Marcus,” she snorted. “They sensed the electromagnetic field the drone created.”

  “You suggested it was because of electrokinesis.”

  “Doesn’t matter, both powers can detect electrical devices. And, there was one warlock that did use those powers.” She paused, her face cringing from emotion. “The real giveaway was their tattoos. Skulls painted over their bald heads, it’s the insignia of a small IW gang out in Buenos Aires, the Bald Skulls.”

  “Never heard of them,” Peters said.

  “They were small-time and got dismantled by me and the mercenary team I was on lease to,” Estrella said. “Looks like we missed a few and they moved to the city with me.”

  Peters’ eyes behind his reading glasses focused on her. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I was their victim,” Estrella said, their faces didn’t change. She went to show them proof, holding onto the left side of her shorts, pulling them down exposing her bare thighs and the scars. Everyone grimaced. “They take kids, do this to them, then sell the psytrip memory sphere experiences on the black market. That’s why I went after them. I couldn’t sit back and wait for confirmation since that is exactly what the cops did when the gang came for my family. By the time they confirmed they were IWs, and sent in the RWs, it was too late.”

  Showing the group her scars pulled Estrella’s thoughts back to the bad old days when she got them. When she was held captive by the gang with other children taken in Buenos Aires. She was beaten, cut, raped, or forced to watch others go through the same thing. The experiences were captured by telepaths, transferred into memory spheres. Sick motherfuckers bought them to experience and relive that moment, over and over.

  “I see,” Peters replied, his voice sounding softer, sympathetic, and less suspecting of Estrella.

  She was glad to hear it. “So, am I fired?”

  “There’s a major shortage of RWs in the city,” Peters said. “So, no, as much as you fucked up your first day, we need you.”

  “Sounds like she’s got intel on the gang too,” Piper said. “Might be a good idea to keep her on this.”

  It was the words she was looking to hear, and from the least likely person, that mysterious RW pixie kiwi, Piper. Estrella glanced at her. Piper glanced back with another pleasing smile. Piper liked her, and she couldn’t figure out why. She was the one that went to call Estrella out, showing the evidence of the wall and all.

  How the fuck did she get those scans?

  I am unsure how—

  Wasn’t talking to you Geoffrey, was thinking to myself.

  I can hear your thoughts you know?

  Yeah, that’s going to take some time to get used to, my old AI didn’t.

  Peters faced Piper as she remained leaning in the darkened corner. “I want you on this Taylor,” he said to her. “Rodriguez’s past makes things personal. We can’t afford to have another outbreak like that—”

  “With all due respect,” Estrella interjected, the tone of her voice raised. “But I did fight that gang back in Buenos Aires, and they were a rank above me.”

  Marcus nodded in agreement. “That’s true, she’s a rank C, and took them all out.”

  Peters grinned at Estrella and snorted. “I’m putting you and Desmond where the action is Rodriguez. I want you to patrol the IW populated areas of the city.”

  “Patrols?!” Estrella spat. “Give me a fucking break!”

  “IW terrorists attacked the EU,” Peters said. “Nobody knows who they are, why they did it, or where they’ll strike next. If there’s going to be an attack here in the Alliance then it’d be here, as we have the largest IW community in the world. We need to be ready to act if anything happens here.”

  Marcus gave Peters a nod. “Understood sir.”

  “Any questions?” No one said anything, though Estrella wanted to protest her new job, it wasn’t going to get her the commendations she needed for Yoshida to reward her with a new post. Then again, she already landed in hot water with her new owners. Best to be the good girl, at this point, and take every chance at digging deeper in the mysterious resurrection of the Bald Skulls gang. And why did they follow her to LA? “Dismissed. And Desmond.”

  Marcus looked at Peters. “Yes, sir?”

  “Keep your RW on a better leash, please? This fuck up is also on you.”

  Estrella made her way to the exit, stopping before it. She turned and faced Peters at his desk. “Wait. I’m on a leash now?”

  “Weren’t you sent here to work low-stress assignments anyway?” Peters said to her. “We’ll take you off the leash when you get on Piper’s level. Until then do your fucking job, or we’ll ask Yoshida for a refund. This is the LAPD, not some fucking Buenos Aires mercenary group. Things are different here, Rodriguez.”

  Estrella didn’t wait for Marcus to catch up with her as she stormed out of the office. Piper, the pixie kiwi, called out to her. She faced her and saw the nudge of her head, a nonverbal come-hither look. She did.

  “He’s trying to protect you,” Piper said. “We’ve lost a lot of good RWs in the last year because of violent IWs. Hotheaded ones like you get put on patrols, where you can’t die.”

  “I didn’t sell my humanity to Yoshida, and then move across the Alliance, against my will, to patrol the streets.”

  “Then step up your game, new girl. And you can start by following orders and not nearly getting yourself and your partner killed.”

  Ten

  Ray

  The Alliance Star was the country’s most-read news publication and home to some of the nation’s most talented investigative journalists. Its office was ninety-seven floors up in one of the most dominant towers in downtown Los Angeles. From that height at night, the cars from the bright urban jungle below looked like pinpricks of white light moving on the purple and pink neon glowing streets.

  The newsroom was devoid of people at their desks by the time Ray stepped out of the elevator, marching past a decorative plant or four in the halls. The chair that idled at his cubicle was cold. Ray spent the last few hours writing his article on his tablet pad in his car rather than doing it at his desk.

  The events of the apartment attack were too fresh on his mind to wait, that and traffic really sucked. Case in point, he arrived with the article complete, rather than racing to his desk to write it. Self-driving cars were a time saver. He wondered how people a century ago survived without them.

  The Alliance Star’s editor-in-chief Steven Jarrod was in his office, a glass-enclosed room off in the far end of the newsroom. It had the best view of the downtown LA skyline, and all the air transports zipping back and forth, adding to the city’s light pollution nobody gave a fuck about anymore. Rainwater trickled down from the blackened skies, giving the city twenty-five percent of its annual rainfall. Climate change was a bitch.

  Steven faced Ray as he entered, shutting the glass door behind. The aging editor ran a hand through his brown receding hair while Ray tossed his report on his pad to him. It spun around across the surface of the desk until Steven caught it and lifted it up to read it. Ten minutes of silence followed as Steven read the report. Ray took a seat and waited for what came next.

  Everything in the report was the truth. IWs attacked the apartment unit of a family of three, who were nowhere to be found when the police arrived, the RW Estrella Rodriguez who was acting strange, and the wall that showed hard evidence that a nanite swarm took it apart, then put it back together. Only an RW could do that, and Ray knew damn well who the last and probably only RW that was in the unit. And he found the family of three hiding in the next-door unit, which was supposed to be vacant.

  Steven shook his head, sliding Ray’s pad back across the desk to him. “I’m not sure about this one, Ray.”

  “Nobody wanted to comment,” Ray said, picking the pad up. “Either I write what every other publication is—that there were I
Ws killed at the apartment. Or we run this, which dives more into what’s going on.”

  “A story about a hotheaded RW that disobeyed orders, and now the LAPD thinks she allowed the family to escape and avoid a police investigation?”

  “It’s the truth according to my source,” Ray said, thinking back to the recent text message Piper sent him. Apparently, Captain Peters sat down with Estrella, and she tried to lie her way out of it. “And she’s been very reliable, as you know.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “And let’s not forget, the police have told no one what Rodriguez may or may not have done. Why? Because they don’t want anyone to know. We can be the whistleblowers with this! Think about it! Us, our publication.”

  “Ray …”

  “Just trust me on this.”

  Steven sighed and facepalmed. He sat on his chair ahead of his wide window peering out into the bright light skyline. “Who produces the hardware and nanites for RWs? Hell, who the fuck created the RWs in the first place to combat the growing IW problem?”

  It was Ray’s turn to sigh. “Yoshida Corp.”

  “And who’s our biggest advertiser?”

  “Yoshida Corp.”

  “And what do you think they’ll do when they see us calling out the LAPD that relies on RWs to keep order in the IW populated areas, and call into question the mental state of an RW?”

  “Give us a popsicle I hope.” Given the heatwave battering the city, Ray could have gone for one.

  “They’ll fucking pull all their ads, then we can’t afford to keep this place running, then I can’t afford to pay your salary. I get it, Ray, you’re all about this journalistic integrity bullshit from yesteryears. But it’s the eighties, nobody cares about that. Half the people that come across our stories on their social media feeds, are too fucking stupid or to fucking busy posting pictures of their dick or tits, to see if its fake or not.”

  “It’s the truth!”

  “Yeah, the truth nobody needs to know. Change it or we’re not printing it. I can’t risk the repercussions if we do.”

  “Change it into what?”

  “I made some suggestions.”

  Ray looked at his pad and the eight-thousand-word article he wrote and went through a lot of trouble to get, with what little facts were available. He tapped through the screen, noting the brief suggested changes Steven made.

  He stopped reading when Estrella was called ‘a heroic figure.’

  “This doesn’t explain the wall,” Ray said, waving the pad about. “Or the fact I found the family hiding in the vacant room!”

  “Just leave that out for now,” Steven spat. “If the cops come clean about that RW, then we can post a follow-up report. Until then, we go with this.”

  “No, no, no, you don’t understand! This is the scoop; what I wrote is fact; facts I verified. Those facts will make our story unique. If you want to increase revenue, this is what we need to do, deliver what you can’t find anywhere else.”

  “Did you forget about Yoshida already?”

  “Screw them, we have other advertisers.”

  “So, you did forget. Okay, let me break it down for you like you’re five.”

  Ray rolled his eyes. “Oh, my fucking god.”

  “Well, you’re acting like a fucking kid, Ray, so I’m gonna talk to you like you’re one. Our version of the news makes money; your version of it will make some of us homeless.”

  “Some?”

  “I can’t dance, and I don’t have tits, so there’s no quick backup for me if I lose this job.”

  Ray spent his entire career as a journalist telling the truth, regardless if it was painful to learn or not. Not once did he lie or make something up to make the editor happy. He did everything by the book, diligently following the nine principles of journalism. His instructor in college drilled those principles into his head over and over every class. By the second month of college, Ray could recite that list, and in order, without thinking.

  He flung the pad back to Steven, sending it sliding across the desk. Steven should be ashamed of himself, hell the whole fucking industry should. “I refuse to write that!”

  “Then get the fuck out of my office! I’ll have someone else do it!”

  “Fine, just keep my name off it!”

  Ray left the office with his tablet in hand, fuming, cursing, and nearly tripping over a pot of decorative plants on his way to the elevator. He asked himself why he gave up the life of a hacker to be a journalist as the slow ride of the elevator plunged to the main floor. At least the juicy news he came across could be posted freely, without asshole bosses working as gatekeepers.

  A smile stretched on his face. A new idea came to light.

  He reached for his tablet and swiped away the typed article. Somewhere buried within the device was the old username and password to a secret blog he once operated, back before he dropped out of the hacker’s scene. The blog was still online, still gathering followers, still getting pages read, despite being inactive for years.

  DigiSamurai69 was about to make a comeback.

  Out into the rain, Ray walked, moving away from the office tower the Alliance Star newsroom was in. The puddles with dripping water from the heavens reflected the neon allure of the city around him. Ray’s drive home was full of thoughts of how the world and the underground hacking scene would react when his rejected news report appears on his soon to be resurrected blog.

  The rain let up by the time Ray made it back to his apartment in the middle of district three, a humans only area in the city sporting high rent prices, but low crime. It was a fair trade. Motion sensors detected his presence as he strode in, activating the lights. His closet door slid open at a wave of his hand near a black and gold sensor. His dripping raincoat was left to hang and dry beside dark trench coats and business wear.

  In the living room, a dark blue hue seeped in from the window where his personal computer idled on a desk. Long, translucent strains of water dripped down the exterior surface of the glass. Three sky busses buzzed in the empty void between his apartment, and the others across from it. It was the closest thing to a flying car people would see, and for good reason. Car crashes were still one of the leading causes of death in most urban areas, even with the autopilot feature. Giving driver’s licenses for flying cars would bring about the end of human and witch life in the city.

  He sat at his desk grinning when the dual screens of his computer turned on. One synced with the contents of his tablet pad, and the other displayed his desktop. The desktop picture was a photo of Arianna lying in a garden full of freshly grown, pink and white petalled flowers without a care in the world.

  Arianna …

  His phone showed no missed calls or messages from her. The sound of the ringtone ringing over and over when he called her was worrying. A follow-up text message was sent after three unsuccessful attempts at reaching her. News from the EU had yet to reveal the names of those killed in the terrorist attack.

  Belly growls took his worrying head off the matter. Ray skipped dinner and was paying the price. A quick type and move of his computer mouse brought up a listing of food available for drone meal deliveries. Options he couldn’t afford were grayed out. He placed an order for a cheap half-pound sirloin steak, and fries. The estimated delivery time was twenty minutes, the downside to ordering food during off-peak times. Most drones were in their garages, receiving maintenance and fresh batteries in preparation for breakfast deliveries in the morning.

  He wondered how people at the turn of the twenty-first century survived. Having to go to a grocery store, then prepare and cook food in a kitchen inside of your home seemed like such a hassle. Yeah, back in those days you could order a pizza, but you had to pay a delivery fee and tip the driver. Drones don’t need tips, and can deliver more than just pizzas—

  Ray’s phone rang. The name Arianna Kounias appeared on the transparent device as did her number. He felt his heart in his throat and wasted no time accepting the call w
ith a tap of his thumb. Arianna’s face appeared, smiling at the man she loved.

  “Arianna! Thank God you’re all right. How’s the EU treating you?”

  “I’m fine. I miss the sunny skies of LA, though.”

  “It wasn’t so sunny today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah check it out.” He pointed the phone at the window, its cameras sending the imagery of the rainwater sliding down its surface. She laughed and he flipped the phone back, making it face him. “It’s finally starting to let up now. So, how was your day?”

  “Oh, you know, boring stuff, corporate acquisitions and whatnot,” she said calmly. Then winced. “Oh, and there was that terrorist attack.”

  “I heard about that. Were you close to it?”

  “It happened in Munich. I’m in London right now, just got in a minute ago. Going to be catching a flight to the Alliance soon, New York, then to Los Angeles.”

  He couldn’t wait, nor could the engagement ring sitting on the desk ahead of him, out of her view of course, with the angle he had the phone at. The purchase of the ring was on the premature side, as he did it before speaking with her father, Norris. But Ray had a good feeling about that act. Arianna was the one. His future wife, and future mother of their children.

  “Oh, babe! Check this out.” He saw her face look away from the screen, the hotel she was in letting in sunlight from the European morning. When Arianna’s face returned to face the screen, she was wearing a crown made of flowers overtop her brown hair full of elegant curls. “Remember these things?”

  He smiled, thinking back to that one summer five years ago. “Yeah, you had that on the day we met.”

  “You said I looked like a hippy.”

  “You had that white dress, soy ice cream, and that crown on, singing to yourself in the park. What was I supposed to say?”

  “I was high too!” Her words produced a light chuckle from Ray, breaking the hypnotic trance her blue eyes always put him in. “What you should have said was, where I can get what you were smoking.”