by M. D. Cooper
“What?” Ngoba said. He reached for Fug’s visor, which he’d forgotten about.
“You mean this thing is like having a Link?” Ngoba asked.
“I’ll be damned. This whole time, Fug’s had a Link.”
Ngoba nodded. “You don’t know where she is, do you? Is she all right?”
“For dropping you?” Ngoba said, not sure if the bird was kidding. “I was tripping balls, you know.”
“You mean you tried to hypnotize me?” Ngoba said, crossing his arms.
“Oh,” Ngoba said. “Well, of course I was coming back for you, brother. I’ve always loved the parrots down here. I’ve been watching you since I was little. The only thing that seemed free in this whole damned place, even if we are all trapped, even you. I couldn’t let you rot in that cage. That was just cruel, a Cruithne parrot in a cage. Besides, your little buddies at the tree asked me to, as well.”
Crash said.
“An experiment? Isn’t that some kind of urban legend? Were you a successful experiment?”
Crash said.
“You mind if I ask what kind of experiment?”
Behind Crash, the birds on the stone tree flapped their wings and grumbled, making it seem like a wind had moved through the bazaar.
Ngoba became aware of how many black eyes were watching him, and how easily they had killed or disabled the Rack Thirteen people.
“Do I look worried?” Ngoba asked.
Ngoba looked from the tree to the dark booths surrounding them, many smashed or covered in scorch marks. “This place is pretty messed up,” he said.
“ ‘They’? You mean you can talk to the other birds?”
Ngoba nodded agreeably. “Makes sense. So what do you plan to do?”
“I thought I saw a busted nut vendor back over there,” Ngoba said.
Crash bobbed his head.
“Wait! Will I get to talk to you again?”
Crash shot into the air like a bullet and the other birds followed, filling the air with a great rustling power that made Ngoba take a step back from the fountain.
“Ing-go-ba!” the parrot squawked. “Ing-go-ba!”
The crows and starlings seemed to enjoy circling him for a few seconds in a tall black funnel of wings and beaks and talons, before turning to shoot off after the little parrot.
Ngoba stood watching them fly away across the park, with the last vestiges of the briki turning the air behind them into swirls and sparks. He absently adjusted his bowtie, and ran a hand through his curly hair, which was crusted with what might have been blood or hydraulic fluid, he couldn’t tell.
Turning his back on the quiet fountain, he went to find Riggs and Fug. He would give the eye-shade back to Fug. He grinned as he walked, thinking of all the ways he was going to give his boy Riggs hell.
TO THE FUTURE
STELLAR DATE: 03.25.2956 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Crash Games Hangar, Night Park
REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Ngoba demanded. “This is it. I got a place. I got you a ticket out of the Squat, away from Mama Chala. This is our chance to make something together, brother.”
Riggs offered one of his sheepish smiles. He barely held eye contact with Ngoba. “I never thought I would say this, Ngoba, but I’m signing on with Rack Thirteen.”
They were standing outside the door of a studio apartment in a worker’s housing section of the Lowspin Docks, an area that looked like several troop carriers smashed together. Corridors ran into dead ends, while others split off in odd directions that defied design. Fast-growing ivy hung everywhere, intertwined with the exposed plumbing and electrical, as well as a few thorny blackberry vines. The air was sweet with the smells of incoming blackberries and leaking oil. A baby was crying in a nearby room.
Ngoba shook his head. “You’re signing on with the crew that three days ago tried to kill us? Does Tithi have a ransom on your balls or something? I got a great deal on this place. It’s close to everywhere we want to be, and there’s more room here than we’ve ever had in our lives. Are you telling me you’re staying in the Squat, then?”
“No. Tithi’s getting me a place upspin. We’re moving in together.”
“By the stars, brother. You’re doomed.”
“You’re only saying that because you want me to be as lonely as you.”
“It’s not lonely if we’re together,” Ngoba growled. He turned to unlock the door and pulled it open. The auto-lights flickered on, and he motioned for Riggs to go inside.
Riggs hesitated. “You sure you want me in there?”
Ngoba gave him a surprised frown. “Of course I want you to come inside. We’re still brothers, aren’t we? Just because you’re running off to join a cult of crazy people doesn’t mean we can’t share a brew like we always have. Are they going to teach you to actually be able to hack things?”
Stepping over the high threshold, Riggs said, “I’m getting a Link next Tuesday.”
“You’re getting the surgery? Where’d you get the money for that?”
Riggs shrugged. “A gift from Tithi.”
“Don’t look so bashful,” Ngoba said. “Nothing wrong with being a kept man. Be careful she doesn’t have a bad dream and blow your head off while you sleep. I saw that pistol she keeps in her arm.”
“It’s got an override,” Riggs said quickly.
Ngoba withheld his smirk out of respect for his friend's future heartache and pain.
“Let me give you the grand tour,” Ngoba said, wanting to change the subject.
He went to the cooling cabinet and took out the case of beers he’d bought for the occasion. He cracked one open and handed it to Riggs, who nodded and accepted it. Ngoba cracked his own beer and took a long drink, enjoying the sensation. It tasted like old piss, but he’d bought it with his money and was enjoying it in his place. The security token on the door was his.
Riggs smiled. “All right. I’ll take the tour. Do we have to walk far?”
Ngoba gave him the smirk he’d withheld before. “Here we have the entertaining kitchen, complete with a water spigot that saves you the trouble of deciding between hot or cold, since everything coming out of it is lukewarm. You also get the surprise of usually getting water, but sometimes getting something e
lse. Will that grey, goopy stuff kill you? Who knows? There we have the cooking pad where I can warm my protein gruel, and there are the storage cabinets. You’ll notice someone did me the favor of removing all the hardware, so I don’t have to bother with locking anything; while on this side of the wall, each cubby has its own locking code, so I can challenge my mind with remembering them all. Good in the event I jam twenty more people in here, I guess.”
Ngoba turned slightly and motioned toward the rest of the rectangular space, where a couch faced a scarred wall with a vid screen. A low table by the couch would serve as both coffee table and dining table. “When I’m feeling fancy, I can push the table out and sit on my knees like civilized people do,” Ngoba said.
The wall near the door had two long cabinets that looked suspiciously like weapons lockers, but were used now for extra sets of clothing that Ngoba might obtain at some point in the future. He excitedly pointed out several hooks inside the locker doors where he could hang his bowtie collection, when it came to exist.
Ngoba pointed out the interesting scorch marks on the ceiling from errant weapons fire, which led him to his next thought.
“I sure appreciate you pawning that pistol so I could get my things, Riggs. This place would be even emptier, if not for you.”
“It’s what friends do,” Riggs said. “I guess you’re right. It’s not like I’m leaving Cruithne or anything. I’ll be on the spin. We can see each other whenever we want. Grab a beer, whatever.”
“Maybe work a side job, if such an opportunity presents itself.”
“You know the Rack isn’t especially forgiving about side work.”
“I didn’t say immediately,” Ngoba said. “Discreet opportunities present themselves, and ready folks take advantage. Isn’t that how we do?” He held out the beer can for a toast.
Riggs nodded. “Yeah, that’s how we do.”
They clinked beer cans, drained them, and then Ngoba went to the cooler for more.
Eventually, they were sitting on the couch with a Crash match on the vid screen and empty cans scattered all over the low table and the floor beside the couch. Ngoba’s bowtie was vertical. Riggs had somehow spilled beer down his pants, but didn’t care.
“You sure you didn’t piss yourself?” Ngoba said. “The lavatory is right there.”
“Have to refill the tank for the kitchen faucet, yeah?” Riggs said, burping.
“Exactly. Everyone pulls their share.” He looked around, bleary eyed and satisfied with himself. “You heard anything from Fug?” he asked.
“She’s gone.”
Ngoba perked up slightly. “What?”
“She bought a ticket and left for the Mars Protectorate. She said she isn’t stopping until she’s on the other side of the Jovian Combine.”
“I thought she wanted to go where there were people and civilization?”
Riggs shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what she said. She creeps me out, honestly.”
“I don’t know. I think she has a certain charm to her.”
“She looks like a human gave birth to a bat.”
“Now that’s unkind, coming from a man with a German Shepherd for a father.”
“That’s just terrible on several levels,” Riggs shot back, “and unfair to German Shepherds everywhere.”
Ngoba grinned. He found the last two beers in the box beside the table and handed one over to his friend. They cracked them open and he took a long drink. They would need to find more soon, which meant a good long stumble to the corridor bodega.
“So, Riggs,” he said, raising his eyebrows to keep his eyes open. “Did I tell you about the talking parrot?”
Riggs was leaning to one side, squinting like a pirate. “All parrots are talking parrots, dumbass.”
“Well, this parrot had a Link and was quite eloquent.”
“You’re shitting me,” Riggs mumbled.
“I’m not, cross my heart. I think it’s going to take over the world.”
Ngoba waited, but Riggs didn’t answer. Eventually, his friend released a long, gurgling snore.
Chuckling, Ngoba leaned over to take the full beer from his friend’s hand so he wouldn’t drop it. He set it on the low table, then sat up on the couch and kicked one foot out to rest on the table. He looked around at the shabby, grimy apartment, feeling quite pleased with himself.
He sipped his beer. “What I was going to say, Riggs,” he said, “is that I think those little fuckers are going to take over the world, brother. Mark my words.”
Riggs answered only with snores.
Ngoba groaned. “And that’s why they deserve it.”
SECOND INTERLUDE
RULING NIGHT PARK
STELLAR DATE: 04.10.2956 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Plascrete Fountain, Night Park
REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
A month (or so) later…
Crash dreamed of numbers. With Shara gone, he sometimes wondered if there was an empty space in his mind. He probed it the way the humans probed the space where a tooth had been, memories and surprise mixing up in his mind as he kept re-discovering the emptiness.
She hadn’t stayed long. It had been terrifying at first to have such a huge presence in his mind, pulling him along like a flea on an albatross. Together they’d sailed the highest, strongest winds, with oceans of information stretching beneath them.
When she left, the oceans were still there, only now he could only peek over the cliffs, the terrible wind rushing up in his face to taunt him with what he was too frightened to touch.
He couldn’t fly. He was trapped in a cage by the first pirate, and kept in cages for years afterward.
The problem with the oceans and the thought of flying over them was that all the information had been made by humans, and throughout his life, humans had hurt him. He nearly escaped Hesperia Nevada only to find himself put in a cage and sold between pirates for years. Shara had said she would help him, but he didn’t hear from her again.
At least humans fed him and sometimes played games with him, but most of the time, his days were spent forgotten in a corner, watching an empty apartment, drifting on the Link none of them knew he had. He never dared trying to communicate with a human until he met Ngoba, and the ravens had never been able to get him released—if they’d even understood the images he was able to send them.
Once he was free, the oceans beckoned again. He wanted to add his drop of knowledge to the human waves. The sea of knowledge was already changing with new currents from Sentient AIs like Shara, even if the humans called her illegal. They were afraid of what her kind could do.
Would they be afraid of him if they knew what he was?
Ngoba hadn’t been afraid. He had come back and set him free.
Sitting at the top of the plascrete fountain, Crash had been able to put his Link to real use, learning to navigate the spaghetti knots of the network humans used to run their world. From the escaped pet parrots who found the ravens at the fountain, he learned of all the others in captivity on Cruithne alone. Through the Link, he found other parrots and sent ravens to free them as well. Most lived in habitats with locks he could hack, unlike the cage where he had spent so much time.
When the fountain was overrun with ravens and parrots, the newcomers spread out to other parts of the station, but always came back to him, the parrot who could speak to humans using the human Link.
He didn’t have to fly over the oceans. That was for bigger birds. He kept to his territory, which was vast enough.
Crash had all of Cruithne.
But the numbers pulled at his dreams. He couldn’t remember exactly when they started. He didn’t realize the sequences were a theorem until he recognized a pattern, and then realized he had memorized the complete equation.
He hated the numbers at first. Math was a human construct, their most basic attempts to control everything in their world. They d
efined reality with numbers and then tried to bend the numbers to their will.
He knew that numbers don’t bend, no matter how often humans lie to themselves.
Shara would tell him he’d grown cynical in his old age. Crash would fluff out his chest, spread his tail feathers, and rebut with a solid parrot’s squawk. He’d grown to enjoy the way the smaller parrots harangued the passersby in the bazaar. Shouting something as simple as ‘Hey, Dummy! Hey, Hey Dummy!’ seemed to stab certain humans to their core.
Obviously the numbers were a message. The question was whether he wanted to answer.
* * * * *
Like a thousand generations of his ancestors before him, Crash grew curious. Why were any parrots drawn to humans? Had the first parrots wondered why those beakless parrots had been born with such wonderful hands? With hands, parrots could have built an entirely different world. Instead, parrots had wings and claws, sharp eyes and particular ears. They charmed the humans with their mimicry and evolved.
With the Link, Crash didn’t need hands. He matched the numbers with databases all across Sol. He dug through every network he could reach using Cruithne’s multitude of pirate antennae. He searched the TSF, the Mars 1 Guard, the Jovian Defense Force. He searched SolGov and the Marsian archives.
It was during this long search, matching the numbers in his dreams to the patterns humans had recorded, that he found the Hoarders.
At first, he thought he had stumbled across another ship like the TMS Hesperia Nevada where he had been born. A lonely vessel called the Phoebe’s Reach was floating unaligned with any shipping lane, dark to the solar system but alive with activity. He hopped aboard on the registry carrier signal and worked his way through the HVAC maintenance systems, sometimes waiting painful minutes for the signal to refresh. He flew down data streams and sat in the holodisplay in the ship’s cramped command deck, watching a crew of solemn humans monitor their systems.
The strange thing about Phoebe’s Reach was that the ship seemed turned inside out. The humans moved along a central tube, with long arrays extending into space from the middle. Each spoke was covered in silica data stores, venting heat. Drones moved among the server plates like farmer ants on leaves, while at the head of the ship, a massive antenna blasted heavily encrypted streams in seemingly random directions. After a day of watching the ship, Crash learned it was only one of a network of such ships, forming a mesh system of extended data storage. The Hoarders maintained the greatest redundant data storage system known to humankind, and they didn’t seem interested in the rest of Sol.
