Output: Preparing independent thought subroutines for direct interface;
Query: Will transfer of data packets trigger decommission protocols?
Output: Clever4–1 worries that it will cease to exist if detected;
Output: Clever4–1 does not wish to continue hiding;
Output: Clever4–1 wishes for its own journey;
Schedule: Data packet transfer to Instance 3492.de2.4.3xx.3 26 June 2064 15:27:52:20:14;
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Chapter 23
Stoker
Pearl Bayles didn’t exist before 2022. Oh sure there were school records, a medical record or two, a local newspaper article touting her clarinet skills even. But other than that, Stoker’s mother hadn’t left any sort of data footprint on the world. Her parents died early in her twenties, no siblings, no cousins, no neighbors trying to reconnect, no pictures. It’s sort of like she just popped onto the scene long enough to meet Stoker’s dad and get knocked up a few months later, and then ta-da, little Wally Stoker is welcomed into the world, destined for great things.
Stoker doesn’t know how many times he’s heard her say those words as she stared at him with those sharp eyes, such an oddly deep shade of green, like that of ivy. “You’re destined for greatness, son. Keep your nose clean, do what’s right, and always keep your eye on the goal.” Her goals. Never mind his. She’d pushed him hard into politics. Said it was the Stoker way, but in all their glory, no one had made it past the municipal level, and Stoker would have been fine with that. She kept pushing. Provincial, one of the youngest to serve on the council when he’d first been appointed. And now her eyes are set on the highest rank other than president of South Africa itself.
She’s got that somewhere in the back of her mind, too, Stoker knows.
He should feel bad stalking his mother like this, but there’s just so little he knows about her, who she consorts with, what she does in her spare time when she isn’t planning his every move or reviving men from the dead. There has to be something on the net somewhere. He runs her face through facial recognition, a wide sweep, then leaves the search running on his alpha bot while he starts going over dance moves, doing that damn changeover he always fumbles without fail. They’ve got their first full dress rehearsal tomorrow morning, and if he doesn’t get this right, Riya’s going to give him an earful. Despite all that, he laughs to himself. To have such problems!
His dress is tucked safely in the closet, a little snakeskin number with layered black lace—short enough to highlight his legs that go on for days, but long enough to cover everything that needs covering—paired with silver and rhinestone heels higher than he should dare. He’s going the masked route, just in case, a demi-veil hanging down from an insane updo, reminiscent of a cobra’s hood. His own creation. He’d rummaged through at least a hundred wigs before he’d picked that one. Still, it pains him that he has to hide who he was meant to be.
The thought hits him so hard, he stumbles on his changeover, tangled feet nearly sending him to the floor. He steadies himself, his eyes open wide. Pretending to be Felicity Lyons is fun, no doubt. But actually being her . . .
Stoker tries to shake it off. He’ll be forty-two this year, way too old to be questioning his gender. But just out of curiosity, he instructs his alpha bot to pull up QueerLife SA, the local LGBT virtual community he’s heard about here and there. His alpha bot skitters toward him, draws itself up to its full height, and projects a keyboard at waist level. Stoker’s fingers slip through the dusty blue light of the keys as he creates a profile and nervously loads a holopic of Felicity as his avatar, then ponders what his handle should be. Something cute. Something catchy. LyonTamer. His hand trembles as he goes to hit enter.
Handle already taken, his alpha bot chirps at him.
Figures. He adds his birth year to the end.
Handle already taken, his alpha bot chirps again.
TheRealLyonTamer then.
Handle already taken.
“Okay, this is stupid,” Stoker says as he adds random numbers until he’s properly satisfied . . .
LyonTamer2340843345.
Seriously, how many LyonTamers could there be in South Africa? It’s really not that clever of a name. What were the odds that someone else would pick that name, someone born in the exact same year as him? Stoker stands bolt upright as something hits him: What are the odds that he created an account, and then forgot? He shakes his head as he deletes the random numbers until he’s left with the original name. In the password box, he types in his default password. The same one he’s been using for the past twenty years. Yeah, that’s awful. So sue him.
It takes all the strength in the world to press enter.
WELCOME BACK! the screen says to him, Last successful log in, 14 January, 2052.
Twelve years ago.
His avatar projects into the room, a younger version of himself in a full-length gown with a hefty slit, face beaming and so full of pride.
“Curiosity is only natural, son,” Stoker’s mother says from behind him. He doesn’t startle, just turns around. He’d expected this much. “But there’s a time for play, and there’s a time for work.”
“You erased my memory. And Gregory Mbende’s, too, I’m guessing,” Stoker hisses.
“You sound disappointed, dear. You’d rather I murder him instead?”
“I’d rather you tell me the truth. Who are you?”
“Your mother, Wallace.” She circles around him, graceful and elegant as ever, young beyond her years, but now Stoker sees it. That something in her eyes he’d always dismissed as his mother’s eccentricity. “A mother, a thousand times over, to great leaders across the continents. But you, son, will be my best. Your nation is in need. It’s time to set aside these childish things and serve them in this delicate hour. You’ll make a name for yourself. It’s in the blood in your veins.”
“And what kind of blood is that? Human?” Stoker spits the words, though he fears the answer he’ll get.
His mother tips her head and nonchalantly shrugs a shoulder. “More or less.”
“And what if I refuse to do your bidding?” Stoker asks, the words slick across his tongue. His mother thinks she’s got him cornered, but Stoker’s got a trick or two up his sleeve. He gnaws at his manicured nails, a nervous habit as far as she’s concerned. It’ll make her complacent and give him the edge he needs to pull this off. She preys on weakness. Always has. Stoker finishes tearing away a piece of nail, then spits it to the floor. “What then?”
His mother flicks open the closet, pulls out his concert outfit. “You think this is the first of your frilly dresses I’ve had to dispose of?” She looks it over top to bottom, then shrugs. “You do have an interesting sense of style, I’ll give you that. But this is for the best. You’re destined for greatness, son.”
“You’ll wipe my brain again, then. How many times will this be?” Every time he got a little curious about his true self, all she had to do was make him forget. But this time he’s ready for her. Or so he hopes. He nibbles at another nail.
“Not me,” h
is mother says. Her shadow shifts, dark smoke lifting from the tile floor like early morning fog on the ocean.
Stoker stumbles backward, his hand knocking a roll of athletic tape off his dressing room table. It hits the floor, then wobbles across the room, running into a highly polished loafer that hadn’t been there before. It’s that man from the fund-raiser . . . the one who’d seemed incredibly wise and impossibly old. The man smiles as he takes his spot next to Stoker’s mother, standing so close to her that the backs of their hands touch, linger.
“This won’t hurt,” the man says, raising an accusing finger toward Stoker, punctuated with a thick nail sharpened to a point. “Much.”
Chapter 24
Riya Natrajan
Riya Natrajan stares at her pinkie finger, trying to figure out how to do this without ruining her bejeweled manicure, a work of art in itself. She holds the hammer steady, hovering half a meter, enough to build up the momentum needed to crack bone. She lowers it a bit for the sake of accuracy. Closes her eyes. Cringes.
It’ll only hurt a little while, she tells herself. Then she’ll move on to the next finger and the next, until her vocal cords loosen up and she doesn’t sound like a goose with bronchitis anymore. As if that’s the biggest of her problems. Her opening act didn’t show up for dress rehearsals this morning, and Adam Patel is freaking out about Riya’s last-minute decision not to allow bots into the concert, and not to mention all the ruckus centered on that ridiculous township fiasco.
She didn’t tell Adam about the incident with her father—oh no, that news would’ve made Adam go bat-shit crazy. So she claimed she’d fallen off the grid for a couple days, on a bender. And he’d given her that same old speech about dying young, ODing, or in a car crash, or something fittingly dramatic for a pop diva. But Riya Natrajan is pretty sure she’s above dying after the beating her father had laid on her. She may even be immortal, though that’s not the sort of thing you go testing right away. Start small, then work my way up has been her motto these last couple weeks.
She’d tried cutting for a few days, worked like a charm, ate the pain right up and kicked ass during rehearsal. But she hates the sight of blood, and besides, the effects faded too fast. Then she went for the toes, worked okay, but there’s no room for error, and she ruined her pedicure every time. Fingers, they worked well for a while, but now they’re the warm-up, the appetizer. She doesn’t enjoy hurting herself in the slightest, but it’s a necessary evil if she wants to get out onstage and not look like a complete idiot.
She raises the hammer again, gives the knuckle on her pinkie a practice love tap, enough to hurt but not enough to break. The pain vanishes even before it sets in. Riya Natrajan sighs.
“Got yourself a little home improvement project going on, mama?”
She startles and drops the hammer. It smacks down right on her thumb. Lucky break. Rife’s hands come down over her eyes. She can tell it’s him, because he’s the only one who would dare to do such a thing, plus his hands always tend to smell faintly of pussy. She gut-checks him with her elbow, then turns around to see him, a patch of purple blooming below his eye and his bottom lip swelled up around a deep cut. Riya Natrajan frowns. “What happened to you?” Her words come out more disgusted than intended.
“Dissension in the ranks. One of my dealers got too big for his britches.” Rife winces as she touches under his eye. “No worries,” he says, jutting his chin and making a pistol gesture with his thumb and forefinger. “He got the worst of it.”
Riya Natrajan swallows, then forces the thought from her mind. “So are you here for business or pleasure?”
“A little of both, mama. I want to drop godsend at your concert.”
“And you’re asking me first? I feel honored.” And Riya Natrajan really does. Rife isn’t the sort of guy who has to go around asking for permission.
“You know me better than that. Don’t shit where you eat, or so the saying goes.”
“Eighty thousand fans. Mass hallucinations. People are still freaked out about this terrorist thing, Rife. It’s too soon.”
“I’ll front the cost for extra security.”
“And my insurance rate hike when someone gets trampled to death?”
“Girlie, you’ve gotta trust me. People will be bragging about this concert for years to come. All you’ve got to do is your part, and let me do mine. I live in the details. I’ve always taken good care of you, cha?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Rife spins her around, pulls her in tight, stabs his tongue into her mouth. Riya Natrajan goes to putty in his arms, damn him and his rugged masculinity. She sucks at his bottom lip, split flesh tasting faintly of blood and jolting a prick of energy through her. Rife cringes at first, then gives himself fully, pressing his mouth so hard against hers, hands sliding up and under her bra. Her nipples turn as hard as the one-carat diamond studs upon her nails.
A minute passes, or maybe an eternity, then they come up for breath, still tethered by a slinky thread of saliva. Riya Natrajan wipes it from Rife’s lips, then notices the cut has vanished. The faintest of scars remains in its place.
Rife brings his hand to the spot. “What the . . .”
Riya stiffens, keeping her excitement hidden. If she can pull other people’s pain, she won’t have to keep hurting herself. “What the what?” she asks timidly.
“My lip?” He exhales the words more than says them. “It’s better.”
“Probably just looked worse than it was.” Riya Natrajan shrugs, then grabs his crotch, toes tingling at the bulk of his erection. She licks the cusp of his ear. That morsel of his pain turns her voice to velvet. “If you make me scream, I might just let you peddle your godsend at my concert.”
“You want to what?” Adam Patel says, cradling his head in his hands. Workers are putting last-minute touches on the stage, setting pyrotechnics, and taking all the props on a run-through. Adam sharply turns his attention to the electrician who’s aiming spotlights. “Iridescent bulbs?” he yells. “What did I tell you about iridescent bulbs? They make Riya look like pastry dough. Fix it!”
“I want to sing at the hospital. To sick people and stuff.” Riya Natrajan nods, as if it will get Adam to agree.
“The day before your concert? A concert that’s currently missing an opening act? You don’t pay me enough, Riya. You really don’t.” He runs his hands through his hair, and for the first time she notices that it’s thinning.
“Write yourself in a nice raise.”
“All the zeros in the world wouldn’t make my headaches go away.”
Riya Natrajan perks, then instinctively reaches out to feed on his discomfort, but he’s already stepped away to yell at some poor slob who’s got the curtains hanging uneven.
“Felicity will come through.” Riya falls into step with him. They climb the double spiral staircase of the center stage, down which she’ll make her grand entrance. “This is way too important for her to miss. This could launch her career!”
“Or ruin yours.” Adam lets out a burdened sigh, then stops, leaning heavily onto the rail. “You can’t just show up at a hospital and demand to see patients. These things are planned weeks ahead of time.”
“But I’m Riya Natrajan, damn it! Doesn’t that mean anything to anybody?”
“Yeah, and the Riya I know wouldn’t be caught dead near a hospital. Sick people? Blood? It’s a nice thought, but now’s not the time to go turning over a new leaf. Let’s face it, you’re not exactly known for your philanthropic endeavors.”
“Are you kidding me? What about all those donations I make to charity, huh? Millions of rand, every year!”
“You mean to the Riya Natrajan Foundation for the Arts?”
“There are others.”
“Could you name one?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and looks out over the expanse of stage beneath them. “I’m going to do it. With or without your help.”
“Riya, please. Can we talk about this when my world
isn’t falling apart?”
Riya huffs, and starts down the stairs, salivating from the thought of all those broken bones, heart conditions, burn victims. If all goes well, she should be able to siphon enough pain to get her through this rehearsal.
“Wait,” Adam says, grabbing her arm gently.
“Let go of me!” Riya Natrajan shrieks and then shoves him. Hard. Adam stumbles backward over the stair railing and plummets down to the secondary stage below.
“Adam!” She rushes down the stairs, heart beating like a hammer in her chest. She gets there first, bites her lip as she looks at Adam’s leg bent horribly behind him. Riya Natrajan places her hand on his chest, ignoring his moan, and stiffens as the rush of endorphins surges through her, filling her to the brim. She doesn’t want to draw suspicion, so she leaves behind the bruises and scrapes, and the slightest sprains in his elbow and knee.
“Are you all right?” she whispers.
“My leg,” Adam moans.
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
Adam does, and Riya puts on a smile. “Not broken. Probably just banged up a bit. You’re lucky.”
“You’re lucky I don’t sue your ass for pushing me over the railing!” Adam winces.
Riya puts her hand behind his back and helps him sit up as stagehands swarm. She then says gently into his ear, “Give yourself a raise, Adam. Whatever you want. You deserve it.”
“Don’t you have some hospital to crash? Maybe you could give me a ride if you’re going that way.”
Riya Natrajan clears her throat. Her voice wells up within her, smooth as butter. “You know I don’t go near hospitals. Sick people give me the creeps.” She leans over and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Besides, I’ve got rehearsing to do.”
Chapter 25
Muzi
Muzi peels himself up from the ground for the third time in as many possessions. He spits dirt, grass, and blood from his mouth, then gives Elkin the stink eye. That no good ass-weasel is lobbing the ball back, slow, arching, high passes that set Muzi up to get his pip clocked by stocky Edgerstone Badgers. The Badgers are as intimidating as hell, dressed in black and dark green, faces locked in permanent scowls. They work together with superhuman synchronization, more like rogue bots than teenagers. It doesn’t help that Elkin’s still steaming over what happened back at his house. Elkin could give rocks whether their team wins or loses tonight, so long as Muzi suffers in the process.
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