Tortured Echoes

by Cody Sisco

  “I don’t think she knows. I don’t think Circe knows. Neither of them knows what Victor knows.”

  “Stop riddling me to death! Is my fa in danger?”

  “Not if you cooperate. Not if he cooperates.”

  “You know, Tosh, for someone who says he’s a fan of cooperation, you’re really difficult to work with.”

  “I like my work to be fun.”

  “You like the sound of your own voice.”

  His cheeks, so high on his face, hardened, and his eyes glinted. She smiled to herself—she’d found his button after all.

  He said, “Your fa needs to tell us what’s going on in there.”

  She’d seen her fa once for dinner to celebrate her kicking stims. He’d seemed proud but reserved, like something was weighing on his mind. But that could have been anything. Life in Amarillo was hard for many reasons. It probably had nothing to do with the kennel. “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Victor thinks he’s hiding something. Thinks your fa is scared. Maybe he should be.”

  Elena resisted the urge to smack Tosh in the face.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you don’t want to make problems for your fa, especially when he’s already so deep in trouble. So here’s a suggestion: find out what he knows. He tells you, you tell me, I do my best to make sure he’s not collateral damage. Alternatively…”

  His eyebrows narrowed, but not in anger. It seemed as if he were genuinely considering a new idea.

  “What?” Elena asked.

  “Here’s another possibility. Get someone into the kennel who can get the full story. Someone who can watch and listen, and put our devices where they need to be to figure out what the laws is going on there.”

  “A plant,” she said. “I get it. I do that, and you leave my fa out of it. Deal?”

  “Honor swear. Though I can’t really promise he won’t get hurt as long as he works there. I can hold off any fireworks until we know more and let you know when they’re about to go off. If you help us.”

  Saliva in her mouth reminded her of the feeling right before taking a hit of stimsmoke. She hadn’t wanted to dose this badly since before she quit.

  “I’ll help you,” she said, running through the names of Puros who’d be good at this job, someone clever but not so clever that he made trouble. Someone like Chico.

  25

  Water hides the past, covers our mistakes,

  swallows dreams completely.

  What a vast ocean

  of cares sink

  into silence.

  —Ming Pearl’s Now Blossom (1973)

  30 May 1991

  New Venice, The Louisiana Territories

  Victor became aware of his body, feeling sore in his legs and groin. He was on his back, a red-and-black checkered surface above him, close to his face. His breath rebounded to his nose and smelled like rice.

  Wonda rested a hand on his chest. “You’re back. I can tell by the way you’re breathing.”

  She was standing next to the alcove he lay in. Beyond her, a sloping wall and a window with shuttered blinds were visible.

  He said thickly, “I feel like I haven’t been awake for days.”

  “Not exactly true,” she said, leaning closer. “It’s been a week since I found you.” She kissed the lobe of his ear.

  A hard-on swelled between his legs. “Umm. Thanks,” he said, shifting over, seeing he was in a bunk bed in some sort of trailer. He slid around and lowered his feet to the floor.

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  He tried to hide the erection tenting his pants—some type of loose synthsilk. Wonda pressed her face into his chest, reached down, and grabbed his dick.

  “Don’t be long,” she said.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, as much a gesture of affection as it was a way to push her away, and fled to a door from which the faint smell of lemon air freshener wafted. He stepped into a narrow bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He sat on the toilet cover, held his face in his hands and whispered, “What the laws,” searching his memory for anything from the past few days. The last thing he remembered, and faintly at that, was sitting by a canal and Wonda taking his hand in hers.

  Feeling disoriented and woozy, he shook his head. Blankness hovered nearby but held no attraction at the moment. He wanted to know what was going on. He stood, dropped his pants, and urinated, flaccid now, trying to figure out exactly how he would ask Wonda what had happened. He flushed, pulled up his pants, and stepped out.

  “You’re probably starving,” she said, taking him by the arm. He got the feeling she was more than comfortable touching him and guiding him, almost like a duty, that if she didn’t, she feared he would go wandering off into traffic. Victor followed her out a door, down a few steps, and onto a patch of synthturf shaded by an awning that hung from the top of the trailer.

  She said, “We’ll get us a hot meal.”

  Victor stopped. He had the feeling he’d left something behind. “I’m forgetting something.”

  Wonda said, “Tosh left this morning.”

  “Tosh? Left?”

  “He wouldn’t say where he was headed.”

  Wonda rubbed a hand on his back and gently ushered him forward. They walked by trailers that looked as if they hadn’t moved in years. Some had decks built in front. One had a metal gangway similar to the kind used to board a boat. At the end of the street, three were lined up close almost in a semicircle, the ends chopped off and conjoined with sun rooms built between them. Further along were two trailers on opposite sides of the lane, each with a roof deck built around a central spire. A wooden suspension bridge was slung between them.

  “Where are we?” Victor asked.

  “Lifer Park. A little north of New Venice. Recognize that?” Wonda pointed beyond a tall barred fence, where a steep slope was marked by vertical lines that were tinged yellow by the setting sun. Ouachita Dam.

  The day was almost over, yet it felt like morning, as if his circadian rhythm had been cut off as cleanly as a limb. He hoped it would come back soon; he wasn’t looking forward to sleepless nights in a claustrophobic trailer.

  “What’s wrong?” Wonda asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. He told himself to stop worrying about the future and focus on what had gone on while he was blank.

  “You’re safe here,” she said. “You know that, right?”

  He took stock internally. He looked around at a place he’d never seen with his conscious mind. He did feel safe. “I guess I’m surprised how quickly this place is starting to feel like home,” he said.

  Wonda grinned and took his hand, walking faster, almost skipping now. As they passed more trailers, Victor noticed how each one was decorated and modified as painstakingly as a New Year’s tree. Up ahead, a gate marked the edge of the district. Next to it, a squat little guard’s hut.

  They turned before they reached the gate and approached a simple structure: iron girders supporting an aluminum roof with walls made of gauzy fabric. Picnic tables were visible beyond as if through a haze.

  “You should remember the dining hall,” Wonda said. “You’ve eaten here enough. Remember?” Her voice, normally so open and melodic, carried a twinge of nervousness, a sliver of urgent curiosity. Victor guessed that her trepidation was about what, if anything, he remembered about the last few days.

  “It smells great,” he said, catching a whiff of something fried, maybe fish.

  Wonda smiled, her anxiety seemingly forgotten or maybe tucked safely away for later. “I’m starving.” She let go of his hand, pulled back one of the gauzy sheets, and held it open for Victor. “Hurry,” she said, “We want to keep out the bugs.”

  He moved inside, the sheet falling from her hand and brushing his backside. They moved forward together into the Lifers’ dining hall as her hand found his and gripped it tight.

  Human Lifers love barbecue, Victor learned. The smell of grilled chicken, lamb, beef, and pork—sweet, smoky, and peppery—waf
ted from one side of the tented area where a line of people moved past the banquet table, filling their plates. Another long table held many bowls of various salads—pasta, cucumber, fingerling potatoes. Diners were piling big scoops of food on their plates.

  Victor felt strangely nauseated. The thought of eating made his stomach shrink. He accompanied Wonda to the grills, waited for their turn in front of a large man whose limbs wouldn’t look out of place roasting above the coals, and asked for and accepted a seasoned chicken thigh and a round slice of pork tenderloin. Looking down at his plate, he realized something was wrong. He held up the line, ignoring the cook’s incredulous expression. What was it? Then it struck him—he needed two. “Another thigh, please,” he said. The cook obliged and Victor plopped down at a table with Del and Wonda. Two is the best, forget the rest, ran through his head like a mantra.

  Del clasped his hands, elbows on the table, and soon everyone who sat near them followed suit, Victor included—it was too much effort to go his own way, no one would glorify his protest, and he’d rather sit and observe, mute, without a thought in his head.

  “Pure is our food, pure are our souls. May the path of purity lead us true,” Del said.

  “Pure is pure,” each person echoed.

  Victor nodded, didn’t say anything. Pure sure is pure, he thought, and the barest smile rose up.

  ***

  Whiteness cleared from Victor’s vision. He watched the drapes around the eating pavilion flap gently, rippled by a breeze. Only a moment had passed. Wonda’s plate was still full. Del appeared to be cutting into his first slice of beef. He caught each of their gazes. They were smiling. He got the sense that everyone at the table was waiting for him to speak—about what he didn’t know.

  Wonda picked up a little ceramic jar with a spout like a pouty lower lip. She bent over her plate, paused, then offered him the jar. “Do you want some sauce for your meat?” she asked.

  “Thanks.” He took the jar, tilted it, watched a brown gravy thickly glop onto his chicken, and gave it back to her. The sauce smelled sweet, perhaps a bit spicy, and his stomach gurgled, though it didn’t feel as if it were a part of him.

  Victor looked at Del. “What am I doing here?”

  Del cocked his head. “We decided that we needed to be a bit more lenient about the seeker’s path. And a bit more hands-on in your case.”

  “Those hands being Wonda’s?” he asked.

  “And Tosh’s,” she whispered, so quietly he wasn’t sure if she’d intended for him to hear. She looked away. Victor could almost feel heat rising from her skin, and a pink aura glowed around her.

  He wasn’t angry or ashamed, more incredulous than anything else. Had his disgust for Tosh been so superficial that he let himself be manhandled while blank? Had he really welcomed it?

  Victor’s memory returned to that one day in high school, coming out of blankness naked, deeply ashamed at the students laughing at him as he covered his crotch with his hands and searched for his clothes. He felt none of that panicked anxiousness now.

  That’s new, he thought. He’d always assumed it would take years of persistent and patient effort to overcome the shame of his blank actions. Now it seemed to have been discarded as easily as a used tissue.

  “We know you’ve struggled,” Del said, apparently willing to overlook the more primitive aspects of his flock’s behavior. “We want to help stop the Classification Act. It’s rare I see anything on the Mesh that’s worth paying attention to. Your renouncement of medication has inspired us all. You are on the path of purity. Your cause is our calling. For some, it will be their greatest test.” Del looked at Wonda, then at the others at the table. They watched him attentively. “You have to forgive their silence, Victor. We usually don’t discuss politics at the dinner table.”

  The men and women at the table were all around Victor’s age. Their eyes were bright, wide open, and adoring, making him feel appreciated and safe. Wonda squeezed his hand beneath the table, and he didn’t shy away. Her touch was welcome, supportive. He’d kissed her in Pond Park in the middle of near-blankness, and now, it seemed, they were comfortably intimate. How had he lost his aversion to being touched so quickly? It was as if he’d come back from blankspace a different person. Could other aspects of his personality be that malleable? What would that mean?

  A young man with a shaved head and nonexistent eyebrows raised his hand. “Del,” he said, lowering his hand, “could I ask Victor a question? It’s about my calling.”

  “Go ahead, Meric.” Del wiped his mouth primly, using a corner of his white napkin to dab away brown sauce lingering near his lips.

  “Are you going to see Samuel Miller again?” Meric asked Victor. His eyes betrayed no hint of anxiety or disgust.

  Victor blinked. They knew Samuel had killed hundreds of people, didn’t they? It was still so disorienting to see someone say his name without crossing themselves or doing something to ward off his evil. Victor had only ever gone to see Samuel because he needed him to get the data egg open.

  A shiver ran down his back. He wouldn’t think about the data egg. He’d buried it to avoid its unwelcome truths. He didn’t have to see Samuel ever again.

  “I’m sorry if you don’t want to talk about it,” Meric said. “We’re concerned is all. The last MeshNews interview—we’d seen him before, he was talkative. The life in his eyes was shining, but during this last one, it was gone. We think they’re dosing him again. We thought maybe now that you’re—maybe now you’re ready to go back and check on him.”

  “Check on him?”

  “Make sure he’s not being medicated against his will.”

  “I hope he’s on pills!”

  The unmedicated Samuel terrified Victor. His talk of voices, primals, ghosts, and crossing over were delusions as fascinating and multilayered as they were creepy. Now that Victor had gotten what he needed from Samuel, he had no intention of coming within an arm’s length from him ever again. And if there was even the slightest chance his delusions were contagious—what else could explain what Granfa Jeff had said about Circe believing his deranged ideas?—then everyone would be better off with a medicated Samuel.

  Wonda put a hand on the back of his neck. It was warm, soft. “What Victor means is that the path to purity isn’t always a straight line, is it?”

  Victor relaxed his shoulders. Her hand felt good, calming—amazing. He didn’t mind that she was putting words in his mouth. She could say all she wanted on his behalf. He would stay mute, unthinking.

  “Why don’t we leave this talk for later,” Del said. “There’s something else I know the potentiate is eager to learn about. You know, purity isn’t the end goal for us. Not like the Puros. They’re focused on the physical world. We’ve a greater goal in mind that we’re working toward. The path of purity, we say, is the only way to truth. As seekers, we’re striving to reach our highest place in the universe. To achieve unity, if you will. Now, given that, it should be no surprise, Victor, that there’s lots of curiosity about blankspace. Wonda has shared the details of some of your visions. Would you mind describing what they’re all about?”

  26

  Technology isn’t inherently disruptive. Innovation yoked to the status quo is a stable system even as it leads to stagnation.

  Imagination is the great disruptor. The cynic asks, what could be different? and expects no answer. Everything can change, I believe, if we first believe we are free.

  —Osirus Smythe’s “Data Isn’t Free,” an unpublished term paper

  31 May 1991

  Amarillo, The Republic of Texas

  Elena’s thumbprint marked the glass screen with a swirly pattern of dirt and oil. No matter how often she washed her hands, the dry and dusty climate of Amarillo clung to her. Bacteria as well. Her own personal biofilm. Knowledge she would rather not have gained via Mesh personal hygiene alerts, little use it was to her.

  The realtor, in his burgundy, threadbare jacket and gray chevroned tie, fidgeted. This was a
big sale, and his business had been slow. She’d followed him for days. It never hurt to know the person you were going to do business with. The realtor had showed a few clients into the town home, and judging by the way he moped afterward and the lack of foot or any other kind of traffic at the properties he was hawking, income was something he would be very, very excited to receive.

  She rubbed her hands on her pants while they waited for her thumbprint to be processed in a clearinghouse somewhere—who knew exactly where. The Mesh in America was a sparsely clustered nether realm of data and algorithms that she’d never really understood. There would be a criminal background check when her fingerprints went through. They would find nothing. Despite a few years hanging with the Puros, a group labeled by the Republic of Texas as a terrorist organization, Elena’s record lacked any smudges and was part of the reason she was so valuable to them. The apartment would be her reward.

  She stood in the kitchen, wanting to rub her hands over the stone tiles of the floor but holding back. It wouldn’t feel as good as it had on stims. Nothing did.

  The realtor looked up with a grin that seemed decades younger than the puffy skin below his eyes. “Clear,” he said.

  She couldn’t help but smile too. It was hers. Two floors with two bedrooms, a living room, a den, and a balcony overlooking a quiet, lush courtyard. The most insanely over-the-top bathroom adjoined the master bedroom. Elena would have to remember to bring towels the next time she came over so she could luxuriate in the walk-in shower and then soak in the bubbletub.

  She could almost forgive the landlord of the last place she’d lived, the one she’d shared with Victor, for repossessing it and much of her belongings when they left so that she could go to rehab.

  She stopped herself. The past was the past. Right now, she needed to start planning. With any luck, she could have all her stuff moved in less than two days. She’d need help from the Puros, of course, but she had no doubt she could get it.

  I’ll have to be sly though, she thought. I don’t want them thinking they’ve got an open invitation. That means no Xavi, definitely not Davinth. Maybe Chico. It could be nice to have him around, and naked. Then she could casually let him know that she had a problem that needed taking care of, and was he a dog person?