Tortured Echoes

by Cody Sisco

  “She’s not violent,” Victor said.

  Tosh responded, “Tell that to Jefferson.”

  “Gentlemen,” Del said. “Let’s focus please and try to elevate our discussion. Ms. Eastmore seemed to appreciate our message. We can at the very least discuss with her how BioScan can mold itself to fit the future face of things.”

  Del had a tight grip on the green book he’d shown to the crowd earlier, and Victor caught a glimpse of the cover, which read, Theories of Emergence by Estrella Burgos. He’d never heard of it.

  “You’re as delusional as Victor if you think you’re going to win a pinch of change by talking,” Tosh said.

  “How delusional am I?” Victor said. “What have I believed that didn’t turn out to be true?”

  Tosh had no response. He glowered and shifted in his squat, the fabric of his pants bunching around his knees.

  “I believe you predicted the future,” Wonda said softly. She squeezed his hand. “When you were younger, you saw Carmichael before it happened.”

  Revulsion like bile climbed his throat. He’d told her his most embarrassing and deepest secret while blank. He jumped to his feet. “I’m done with all of this. You do whatever you want. It’s not my problem.”

  Tosh followed. “You inherited this mess. You’ve got to fix it.”

  Victor spun around. “No! I didn’t inherit a mess; I inherited a crazy family that’s playing out some sick revenge drama using me, their mentally ill relative. This situation—all this nuts talk of religion—that’s a load of shit too, and you’re a shit, and this whole town is shitty. I’m done. This time, don’t come after me!”

  Victor went to Wonda’s trailer. Not having much, if anything, to pack, a short while later he stepped out of the trailer, nerves jangling. Just being in this place was making him nuts. It made everyone nuts.

  The idea of psychic infections was ludicrous, so what else could explain the Human Lifers accepting radical changes in their philosophy? Was it hero worship that made them blindly follow Del, or Tosh, or whoever crowed loudest? Maybe Victor had set himself up to be the leader of lunatics, but he was getting out, so it didn’t matter. When people looked at him and smiled, there was something feral, hungry, and desperate in their expressions. He wouldn’t have to see that anymore.

  Still, the question of what was really going on gnawed at him. Maybe their blend of faith and cult worship primed them for transformations, and they had finally found what would take them forward on their path. It didn’t feel like a step forward to him, though. It felt like running into a brick wall.

  “Ow!” he shouted at a pain in his ankle. He heard a whirring of motors, and when he looked down he saw a flat hexagon of metal the size of a small cat with treads like a tank on each side.

  Ozie’s voice came out of a cigar-shaped MeshBit strapped to the hexagon. “Pick me up.”

  A few Human Lifers strolling by looked at him. They’d heard his yelp. He waved until they’d passed by and then said in a lowered voice, “Go away, Ozie.”

  “You have to get out of there. Right now.” The hexagon robot drove over his foot. “It’s about to get crazy in New Venice. Come meet me in Las Vegas.”

  “Stop bothering me, Ozie,” Victor said. “Let me live my life.”

  The hexagon backed up a meter, revved its little motor, and zoomed forward into Victor’s ankle. The pain was a sharp thwack. He kicked the robot hard and sent it skittering across the ground. It became wedged under a trailer tire.

  He walked on, then stopped when he heard a shrieking baby’s cry erupt from the robot’s speaker, amazingly loud. A Lifer emerged from her trailer, a woman with long unbound hair, found the hexagon, and bent over. The baby’s crying stopped, and Victor heard Ozie say something to her through the hexagon’s speakers. The woman dislodged the robot, set it squarely on its treads, and went back inside, unconcerned.

  Victor hurried away, and the little robot followed, Ozie’s voice shouting after him, a message on repeat, “The wise owl listens and leaves before it’s too late,” over and over.

  Victor left the camp through the main gate, hoping the gravel road would prove too difficult for the little robot, but it kept up with him. He left the road, hiking over marshy ground toward the dock. The robot couldn’t navigate the terrain. It pushed into the reeds, couldn’t make any headway, and didn’t seem too smart about it. Maybe Ozie was no longer controlling it.

  The kayak Victor chose was a slender black model and a bit unsteady in the water. He had to be careful not to pull too hard with the paddle or it might overturn. Even turning his head was risky. It didn’t matter. His arms added to the current’s flux, and soon the kayak was turning toward the Grand Canal and passing under the cantilevered arch of the Welcome to New Venice sign.

  Victor was alone for the moment, but it was an illusion. Every day held a new demand or obligation, someone demanding he do this or that, see the reality of the situation, think about the consequences, do something, don’t do something. He’d had enough. The Human Life camp was no longer a refuge for him. He couldn’t go blank anymore, not now that he knew what they might do to him. The sex wasn’t what he was worried about. He pictured a scene where he woke up from blankspace and found dozens of Human Lifers worshipping him like a live totem. Chanting, prayers, idolatry. He wished they would go back to their silly rituals of throwing away their possessions, which seemed so quaint and innocent compared to what they’d become—and so quickly.

  There were very few watercraft today. Victor counted two gondolas and three paddleboats. Maybe it was a shopping day. Or maybe there was a festival down by the entertainment district. Perhaps he should check it out and then leave town for somewhere east, the Southeastern Confederacy or the Greater Ohio Constitutional League.

  Victor ditched the kayak at a dock near the main plaza. If he was headed out of town, he would need to pick up snacks and clothes. As he climbed the steps, he heard a man’s amplified voice. Were some of the Lifers protesting? He could detour, but it would take him blocks out of his way.

  When he reached the top, he saw he didn’t have anything to worry about. It wasn’t the Lifers. A man on a stage flanked by the flags of New Venice, the Louisiana Territories, and the American Union spoke to a crowd of at least a hundred people seated in neat rows, fanning themselves while they listened.

  Victor caught the final words of the man’s speech—something generic about sticking together through tough times. Polite applause followed. Victor was nearing the perimeter of the plaza when he heard the man say he would answer questions.

  “What are you going to do about the Lifers? They’re clogging up the works.”

  Victor turned back. A sign low on the ground that had previously been blocked by the crowd read: Torsten Lund, Solutions for Everyone. Victor strayed closer. He spotted Alia sitting in the front row, looking up at her fiancé. Victor looked at the man again. He was handsome, but a bit too light-skinned for Victor’s taste, with a square face, strong jawline, and wise but pretty eyes. He and Alia would make gorgeous babies if they planned to raise a family.

  “It’s an important question. New Venice has always been a place that welcomes visitors. I don’t see that changing. You know I’m a believer in bringing people together to find solutions to common problems, so I think—”

  “They don’t want solutions,” the man who asked the question interrupted.

  A woman in the front row jumped up and said teasingly to Torsten, “Why don’t you ask old Flo what we should do?”

  The crowd laughed and let out a whoop of surprise. Torsten hung his head for a moment as if he were embarrassed and then raised it again, smiling broadly. “Because I don’t want to get my ear chewed off,” he said. There were a few chuckles.

  A man in the back row just a few meters from Victor said, “We got an Eastmore right here. Maybe he’s got something to say about it.” Heads in the crowd turned. The man pointed at him. “Cleaning up after your friends’ protest cost me a couple hundred d
ollars. I expect to be reimbursed.”

  Sweat trickled down Victor’s back. The crowd seemed to expect a response.

  Torsten stared at him with a territorial scowl for a few seconds; then his expression transformed into a smile as he said, “You all know we owe a great debt to the Eastmores, so of course we thank them as always.” Heads were beginning to turn back toward the stage. Victor had the feeling he’d been let off the hook. Torsten continued, “I pledge to all of you to work on behalf of all the interests at stake and come up with a solution that keeps commerce freely flowing in New Venice. We can all agree that’s our number one priority.”

  “You have to do something about the stim heads!” A woman with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair stood in the front row. Her hands, holding a synthleather purse, twisted and squeezed as if she were trying to strangle it. “Two of them busted the window of my shop,” she complained.

  Two is good. You shouldn’t worry about two, Victor thought. He laughed out loud. His brain was capable of the silliest things. A few of the townspeople looked at him and shook their heads.

  Torsten leaned over, one foot on the stage, arms resting on his thigh, a pose Victor thought of as sexual—only clothes kept the man’s genitals from dangling and his buttocks rearing up. He chuckled to himself picturing Alia’s fiancé naked like that.

  “Will you be quiet!” someone hissed at him.

  “There’s no doubt,” Torsten said, “that we face a problem—”

  “You bet it’s a problem! They’re sleeping in the park. I see a body on the ground, I’m going to check whether they’re still breathing.” The woman in front paused, her voice hoarse, choking on emotion. “Think of the children.”

  Victor covered his mouth and snickered. It wasn’t right to laugh, but the woman was being so…

  Alia stood, went over to the woman, and hugged her. Torsten pressed the sonocap on his lapel, and when he spoke, Victor couldn’t hear the words, though he appeared to be asking Alia something. He pressed the button and said, “My fiancée would like to say a few words. Alia Effendi, everyone, my best lady, please give her a round of applause.”

  The crowd clapped as Alia ascended the stage. “We do face challenges with stims. I want to say a few words on behalf of BioScan. As many of you know…” Alia continued, describing plans to treat stim addicts and conduct research to help stem the epidemic. Victor listened more to the sound of her voice than the words. Everything she said was cogently persuasive. Yet words couldn’t do justice to the melody she used, the variations in rhythm, slow, pensive elaborations quickening to staccato imperatives.

  “We all have a responsibility,” she said. “Whether it’s providing shelter, donating your time or money, we need all the help we can get. There’s no action too small, except to turn away and ignore the problem.” Alia pinned her gaze on Victor when she said this.

  He feared she’d read his mind. Why look at him at that moment? Then he realized it was his guilt crafting a delusion. Yes, he wanted to run away, to get as far from New Venice as he could. But she didn’t know that.

  And yet, delusion or not, she was calling on him to do something.

  There’s nothing I can do, he wanted to say. The Lifers have to figure out their own way.

  Only they didn’t seem competent any more. Their seeking seemed more like flailing for meaning, casting about for any belief that would sustain them until the next one. Intellectual vampire bats sucking faith dry.

  Victor had influence. He knew their thinking, what they were planning. And they still respected him, still listened when he spoke, still wanted him to tell them the truth about blankspace.

  There was no action too small.

  Victor hurried to the edge of the plaza. He wouldn’t leave town. Maybe Del could somehow regain control. Or maybe Tosh could be convinced to fade into the background. Or Wonda could work her magic and get the Lifers to redirect their energies toward helping stim addicts rather than Samuel Miller.

  Victor was a block away when he heard a man’s voice call, “Will you look at that!” He was standing and pointing to the sky.

  A thrumming sound, like the beating wings of a hummingbird, grew. Victor craned his neck.

  “There’s hundreds of them!” the man shouted.

  A crowd had started to gather along the railing. The sound of whirring blades filled the air.

  Formations of dark black birds appeared to be moving across the clouded sky. He squinted. Drones. Hundreds of them, little copters shaped like hexagons.

  Victor raced along the ledge, took a set of stairs up to the foot of one of the bridges over the Grand Canal, and crossed north. The copters were headed toward the Lifers’ camp.

  32

  The only cure for misinformation is a savvy brain.

  —BrAiNhAcKeR Collective

  2 June 1991

  New Venice, The Louisiana Territories

  Victor watched along with other New Venetians as the swarm of drone copters veered in the direction of the Lifers’ camp. He hailed an autocab, jumped in, punched the manual button, and placed his hands on the steering disk. He gunned the engine, but the car didn’t move. Red lights on the dash flashed, and a voice intoned, “Hazard warning. Manual mode disengaged. Please enter a destination.”

  He banged his hands on the dash, breathed for a moment, and then spoke: “Lifers’ camp.”

  “I do not know that location.”

  “Just take me to the foot of Ouachita Dam.”

  “Plotting a route. Please secure your safety belt.”

  “Argh!” Victor jammed the buckle in and pulled the belt tight.

  “Beginning journey. Please sit back, relax, and enjoy the sights of New Venice.”

  “Hurry!” Victor shouted. The autocab didn’t reply as it accelerated smoothly and slowly away from the curb.

  Five minutes later, as soon as the autocab pulled over and stopped, Victor was out and slamming the door behind him. He jogged up the road, reached the gate to the Lifers’ compound, which was open, and rushed inside. There didn’t seem to be much hustle and bustle. The Lifers must be having post-lunch naps in their trailers. He headed to Wonda’s. She never napped.

  Yelling began somewhere near the pavilion. Victor changed direction, heading that way, but stopped when he saw a Lifer banging on a trailer and shouting, “It passed. The Classification Act passed. Head over to Pond Park. We’re going to demonstrate.” Lifers emerged from their trailers. Many carried little black backpacks that made Victor think of Tosh and tech from Las Vegas. One of the potentiates spotted Victor and veered toward him.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s time to make our voices heard.”

  “The Act passed? I thought they weren’t even going to start discussions for a few weeks.”

  “That’s what we thought. And then we saw the news.” She handed him a MeshBit with a screen big enough to scroll through a few sentences at a time. At the top, in capital letters, was a tagline that didn’t scroll. “MESH NEWS EDITOR ACCESS LEVEL DIAMOND,” it read. Below was an official notice from the Louisiana Territories legislature describing the new Classification System going into effect at the end of the month. Victor’s head swam as he read. The details didn’t matter. He’d lost. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Where did you get this?” Victor asked.

  “The drones. About a hundred of them dropped into camp and started wailing. They wouldn’t stop until they were picked up, and then we saw the news. The politicians lied to us. They were never going to have a real debate about the Act. They planned on passing it all along.”

  “I don’t think so,” Victor said. The meetings at BioScan, the ones where Mía was trying so hard to change the outcome, those weren’t just for show. “Something’s not right.”

  “I’ll say. Come on.”

  Victor let her lead him toward where the Lifers were assembling.

  “What’s going on?” Del was asking a few potentiates as they walked by. But no one would stop rushing around.


  “Assemble at the pavilion!” Tosh’s second chief Donya called. “We leave in ten minutes.”

  “Leave for where?” Del wondered aloud. He seemed out of breath, lost.

  Victor joined the rush of bodies jogging down the lane.

  Inside the pavilion, a buzz of angry words swirled like bees around a bear. The Lifers sounded ready to riot.

  Victor arrived in the pavilion as one of the potentiates was describing the strategy for the demonstration. He listened in grim silence. There would be two prongs to the operation: a ground wing and a water wing.

  The ground group would occupy Triton’s Deep Crossing, blocking any pedestrians from using the bridge. Tourists from out of town would have to detour a whole kilometer to reach other bridges to the main part of town, or take buses to the smaller depot at the mouth of the Grand Canal, which would mean a long walk to the entertainment and shopping districts. Townies would be furious on behalf of their customers, Victor was sure.

  The water group would assemble a flotilla underneath the bridge so that no watercraft could access the Pond. They would also blockade where the Petit and Grand Canals met. Diverted traffic would clog the smaller canals throughout town. It would be chaos.

  Victor didn’t think New Venetians would care much about the Lifers’ demands for purity—“What does that really mean?” he’d heard more than a few townies ask—when their daily life was so fundamentally disrupted. Blocking access to one of their civic treasures was sure to get attention, most of it negative.

  Within twenty minutes, the “marines,” led by Tosh, were hiking to the upper Passage marina, where they would climb into kayaks and make their way to the Grand Canal. The “bridgers” group, led by Donya, assembled near the gate, waiting for a few of the Lifer vehicles to caravan in.

  The Lifers chanted during the ride to the park. Victor, seated on a bench in the van, bent over with his face in his knees and hugged his shins. Anxiety rummaged in his bowels, and he sought calm by listening to the Lifers’ cheerful, excited voices.