by James Knapp
“You’re dead, bitch …”
He came at me, and I swung. I broke his jaw, but he kept coming. A door opened behind him and someone looked out, but went right back in. He slammed me into the wall by the stairs and I locked my wrists behind his fat back.
I squirmed under his sweaty arm, scooting behind him. With his gut hanging over my arms, I spun him, pulling him down until we hit the stairwell door and it banged open. He went down on the landing with me on top of him.
People get a look when they start to lose a fight, when they know the beat-down is coming. He got that look when he fell. He went nuts, trying to buck me off and get back up, but he didn’t have the abs for it. I got one knee on his left shoulder, pinning him, and planted my other foot a couple steps down. I hit him with the dead fist, and his lip split open. I hit him with the right, and one of his teeth broke off.
I’d been put in the hospital twice in my life, both times by fuckers like him. I forgot about the skinny bitch with the weird eyes. I hit him again and his nose crunched under my fist. The door slammed open behind me.
“I’m calling the cops!” an old woman screamed. “You hear me?”
He tried to push himself away, but he slipped and started going down the stairs. The door slammed shut as he rolled, landing on his back on the next landing down. I followed him and put the toe of my boot in his ribs. I kicked him twice more, then knelt back over him. I hit him in the face until he shut up and quit moving.
I stood back up and wiped my nose. It was bleeding. He was in a heap in the corner, nose mashed and mouth full of blood. My knuckle was cut and blood was coming out fast, dripping off the ends of my fingers.
I could hear people out in the hall, and from up above. It was time to get out of there.
“Asshole.”
The trip was a bust. The bitch was going to have to wait. I took the steps two at a time down to the ground floor and went out the way I came before the cops showed up.
Faye Dasalia—The Healing Hands Clinic
Deep within the shadows of a disused alley, I slipped between a trash bin and a brick wall, into a dark culde-sac. The ground was littered with trash, where pitted brown ice still lingered from winter. On the far side was a rusted metal door, near where a group of homeless men were huddled underneath a plastic tarp. A sign on the door read HEALING HANDS CLINIC.
Incoming call: Fawkes, Samuel.
I’d expected another contact from him. I’d been lucky at the restaurant. With the lip-reading software, I’d transcribed some interesting information. Motoko was trying to recruit Nico. They knew Fawkes had the weapons. Nico, at least, had drawn a connection to Concrete Falls.
The only thing I hadn’t shared was one phrase, one that Motoko had repeated to Nico: You kill Fawkes. I wasn’t sure yet why I hadn’t told him.
Call Accepted.
I’ve reviewed your report, Faye.
And what have you decided?
That giving Wachalowski the information he wants would be extremely risky.
Fawkes had gathered a lot of concrete data. Over the years he had tracked down many names, and had verified connections between them. He had connected many secret accounts, and traced money trails to key politicians. He’d managed to peel back their many layers and identified their many different fronts. He tracked their holdings and their hidden assets. He knew where they’d based themselves, and the chain of their command. Outside a court of law, he could prove it all, but exposing them would accomplish nothing. Those told would simply forget, and all Fawkes would expose was how much he knew.
Still …
It is the only thing that will convince him, I said.
I agree, but I’ll only authorize a small piece, and we must control it carefully. I’ll draw something up to present to him. It will have to be enough.
He won’t kill her anyway.
I’ve seen Wachalowski’s war record, Faye; don’t be so sure. He’s made decisions that might surprise you.
He didn’t offer up what those might have been. It didn’t really matter.
Lev is waiting for you. He’ll have your work detail.
I understand. May I ask you one question?
Yes.
Why attempt the shooting at the restaurant?
I’d not been told that the shot was coming. After, I saw him follow the trail of smoke, and spot the hole in the glass. I had to move quickly to get off the street, as the paparazzi swarmed. The slug had passed within six inches of me.
I didn’t order that, Fawkes said. If killing her was that easy, I’d have done it by now.
Then who fired the rail gun?
Not a revivor. Maybe one of the Second Chance recruits acting on his own.
With a million-dollar high-tech weapon?
Maybe she staged the assassination.
You think the shooting was staged?
I don’t know. Like you said; not many people have access to a weapon like that. I’m looking into it. Concentrate on Wachalowski for now.
Understood.
The call dropped, and I moved toward the metal door as the words faded away.
No direct sunlight could reach the area, but neither could rain or snow. It was cold, but I sensed warmth under the tarp. I sensed the low, staggered beats of the men’s hearts, and one conspicuous pocket of silence. Two eyes opened in the dark, and cast a moonlit glow into the alley.
When the revivor moved, the living men stirred, but not much and not for long. Except for the eyes, it looked no different from them. In the cold, no one noticed its lack of warmth. Under layers of dirt, blankets, and plastic, it was ignored completely.
It thumped the metal door three times with its fist. A moment later, I heard a dead bolt turn and the door opened slowly.
Lev appeared in the dark space, his eyes staring down from under his thick brow. His expression didn’t change, but he extended a private connection. I accepted it, and he began to stream. This assignment would be different from field work, but it would be simpler. One of the revivors who was stationed there was receiving the upgrade. He assured me the job was temporary, and understood why I cared; some of us liked the quiet, but I wasn’t one of them. It left too much time to pick through memories and to contemplate the blackness beneath them.
You’re in luck tonight, he said.
How is that?
Tonight will not be quiet.
He walked into the darkness, and I followed. The door creaked closed behind us.
He led me down a cinderblock corridor, to an old wooden door at the halfway point. At the far end was another heavy door, a slit of light underneath. In the hall, I could smell rubbing alcohol and human body odor. Lev pushed open the wooden door and stepped through.
Inside was a musty storage area. Boxes had been stacked up along the far wall, but had since been pushed aside. In the space between them was a heavy door, made of thick, shielded metal. A security scanner was mounted there, its lens glowing a soft red.
Lev stooped slightly and placed one eye to the lens, which flickered and turned to green. The door opened silently, and a huff of humid air blew over me. Through the metal door, I saw sheets of plastic. The eyes of revivors stared from along the walls there. I heard the hum of electronics inside, and heavy, scraping footsteps.
I’d heard groupings of revivors called nests and, on one occasion, hives. The terms were meant to be derogatory, but there was some truth to them. I found a certain comfort in these places, the stillness and the quiet. In life, I might have called the feeling cozy. The vibrations of their hearts and the faint smell of decomp inhibitor had become familiar and safe to me.
Lev and I found empty spots along the wall, and watched the figures move behind the plastic as we tuned to each other, out of the common communications pool, to share our thoughts in silence.
What do you think of the upgrade? Lev asked me.
I like the different voices, I said, even if I can’t understand them. It’s hard for me to explain.
I s
ense hundreds of them, Lev said.
Yes, me too.
Like tuning to a common pool, but larger.
Yes.
I like the sound, too, he said. I think they’re a promise of something greater.
Across the room, his eyes jittered rapidly in tune, I knew, with my own. I thought that was a good way of putting it; the whispers were a promise. A new community about to wake.
Where do they come from? I asked.
You’ll see for yourself tonight.
Fawkes said they might be dreaming.
He’s being poetic. I think it’s subconscious bleed-back from wired humans who are still alive.
Do you know that for a fact?
No, but it’s what I think.
Before Lev was made into a revivor, I eventually learned, he had been an engineer. His knowledge was put to use by his captors, before he was turned and packaged with the rest. He’d fought in Orikhiv for close to two years, before its collapse, when he was impounded. Later, he would end up on the black market.
Can I ask you something about Orikhiv?
Orikhiv no longer exists.
But it did when you were there.
Yes.
When you were first brought here, you were refitted.
Yes.
You had a ghrelin inhibitor installed.
His eyes continued to move like moonlit blurs. We’d talked about many things over the years, but never talked about this.
Why do you ask now?
I’ve wondered for a long time.
But why now?
We won’t see the end of Fawkes’s assault plan. If we do, we’ll be impounded and destroyed.
Lev didn’t deny those things.
What do you want to know?
Did you feed on human flesh?
Yes.
Did you try to stop yourself?
No. At the time, I saw nothing wrong with it.
But you feel differently now?
It’s easy to feel differently with the inhibitor installed.
Do you think it’s wrong?
I think it’s unnecessary. Tell me what your interest is in this.
These hundreds of new voices. Revivors created outside of Heinlein won’t have the inhibitor.
Maybe not.
Will they feed?
I can’t speak for them. Without the inhibitor, I would guess, that eventually, yes.
Fawkes is going to use nuclear weapons.
Yes. Across the room, I saw his eyes stop moving.
Won’t that—
You’re moving into dangerous territory, Faye.
Before I could answer him, a yellow light blinked on over the door frame. A broadcast message appeared:
Subject isolated and ready for transfer.
Forget that, Faye, Lev said. That line of reasoning is dangerous. Just stick to the plan.
The door opened silently, and two revivors stepped away from the wall. One was a female who wore contact lenses that doused the light in her eyes. She was dressed up like a nurse. The other was a big male. He picked up a long, thin aluminum rod from a hook on the ceiling. Lev moved in behind the two.
Come on, he said to me, and I tailed them back out into the hallway. They’re going to bring one in now. If he gets free, then stop him. Otherwise, stay clear of the path between the doors.
The overhead lights came on. I turned left, toward the end of the corridor, and saw the door there open. A human doctor in a white coat stood there, his hands guiding a man who appeared homeless. He ushered him through and into the hallway where the revivor nurse was waiting for him. The homeless man looked unsure.
“The examination room is down the hall,” he whispered to the patient. “Nurse Westgate will show you the way. I’ll be in to see you shortly.”
Some of the disquiet left the patient’s eyes, but it didn’t last for long. The nurse had moved between him and the way out, and then the door swung shut and he heard the latch click. He stared, not understanding, as the noise suppressors mounted there turned on and emitted a low hum.
“Who are you?” he asked the revivor with the metal rod. His eyes widened as he watched a loop of plastic cord extend from the end to form a noose. “What’s going on?”
The nurse grabbed him from behind. He struggled, but the other one had reached them. It looped the noose over his head and pulled tight, choking off his scream.
The revivor heaved the rod, slamming the man into the cinderblock wall. It used it to guide him down the hall toward us, while the man pulled at the cord around his neck.
“Stay calm,” the nurse revivor said, but the man was beyond that. Eyes bulging and teeth bared, he struggled harder. He fell to the floor and rolled, twisting the noose tighter around his neck.
“Careful,” Lev called. The man was flopping madly on the floor now.
The revivor who held him loosened the cord and tried to untwist the leash. When he did, the man on the floor kicked forward and the rod slipped from the revivor’s hands. The man stumbled down the hall, the leash jutting behind him. He’d spotted the exit sign, back behind me.
He closed the distance between us, then tacked left to try and shove his way past me. Before he could make it, I stuck out one leg, catching him at the ankle. The rod clipped my cheek as he crashed to the floor.
The others were moving down the hall toward us. The man had slipped his fingers under the cord and was struggling to his feet. Blood and adrenaline pulsed through his body, so that I could almost feel the heat of him. He was beyond any thought; he was being driven now by pure instinct, a hardwired imperative to survive. The energy of it was captivating.
Faye, stop him.
Before he could get back up, I stepped in close behind him and grabbed the rod. I heaved it forward, and his skull struck the floor. Blood dotted the dingy tile in a trail as I swung him back around.
“Please,” the man grunted, trying to twist free. “Please, let me go.”
I could have done that for him; it was within my power. I could have released the cord and let him make his mad dash toward the exit. I could have held up the others long enough to let him escape into the back alley. He might have gotten past the others outside. He might have disappeared into the city and gotten to keep his life. I could have done that for him, but the truth was, it never occurred to me. Not until the other revivors reached us and I gave the rod to Lev.
Good work, Faye. He said. The man’s toes brushed the floor as he lifted him and began to carry him back down the hallway.
He dragged the man through the large, open doorway, and I followed them inside. The heavy steel door glided closed behind us, and the magnetic lock thumped. An overhead light flickered, then lit the room.
The tent of plastic sheeting was pulled open, and underneath it was an old, reclined chair with surgical arms affixed to either side. With the rod, Lev shoved the man down in the chair. He pinned him, while they strapped his wrists and ankles.
Lev removed the noose, and the man gasped in air. He coughed, spraying strings of spit, then rattled out a string of hoarse, shaky words.
“What the fuck is this? What the fuck is this? Who are you people? What do you want with me?”
His eyes darted frantically. He’d seen the eyes of the figures around him, and he’d realized what they were.
“Quiet,” Lev said, but the man kept going, unable to stop. When he saw Lev hold up the plastic syringe, his whispers became incomprehensible.
As I watched, my calm had begun to waver. My memories stirred, evoking an old inner voice.
This isn’t right.
I waited for that old drive to follow it, all the old passion and the old obsession …but they never came to me. I was distracted by the swirling embers and their hidden memories.
“This isn’t right,” I said to a man. He was propped over my body, which felt sore and used. Each time, he’d made me forget.
“It doesn’t matter,” a woman said, exhaling a sour breath through brown teeth. “It�
��s all going to burn. This whole city and everything in it—it’s all going to burn….”
That one, there …what did that mean? I knew that face. We were in my old precinct. Why couldn’t I remember?
I saw a chat portal as I sat alone:
She had something to say. Something you didn’t hear.
Then another face, of a man I’d never seen.
“You never heard the name Samuel Fawkes …”
The man in the chair cried out, and the memories scattered.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Lev had uncapped the syringe. I saw it was filled with inky black fluid.
The glowing orange mass in the man’s rib cage beat at a dangerous rate. I watched the heat throb up the side of his neck and branch across the weathered skin of his face. His bloodshot eyes bugged out, and stared up at Lev as he guided the needle. The tip pierced his skin, above the band of light, and he pushed the plunger down. As the fluid was injected, I scanned it, and caught the cold sparkle of nanomachines.
“What is that?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
He injected the last of the black fluid, and the man began to sag back in the chair. His eyes swam and lost focus. Behind Lev, a timer appeared on a screen. It began to count down from ninety seconds. As it did, the man stopped struggling, and twitched. His heart rate began to fall. At thirty seconds, I thought it had stopped cold, but it maintained a slow beat. His body went into deep relaxation; then with fifteen seconds left, his pulse began to creep back up toward normal.
Since my death, life never had the same meaning. When I looked through my memories, it was clear I’d once valued human life. I’d seen lives ended or destroyed every day, and their suffering had begun to eat at me. I’d struggled hard to keep it at a distance, but over time, the barrier eroded. At the end I was worn raw, and even a revivor’s death could touch me.
Death no longer bothered me, not in the way it once did. The loss of human life could affect big change, when some lives were exchanged for those of others. Maybe Nico had been right all those years back. Maybe I just should have gone away from the rule of civilian law and made my stand in the grind.
Maybe, but still the voice inside insisted. Without feeling, or passion, it insisted.
