by Eric Brown
The commander leaned forward, gestured, and a hail of shells tore the scorpion into a thousand scintillating fragments.
The blue strip at the foot of the flatscreen was replaced by a scrolling message: Mission accomplished! Mission accomplished! Mission accomplished! on and on and on . . .
Then the tank commander turned and stared from the screen, reached up and removed his goggles. Joe Kosinski smiled out at them and waved in victory.
The screen faded, and a strange, still air of indecision hung over the gathered technicians, until Ralph yelled and embraced his neighbour and Wellman moved from tech to tech, shaking hands.
Halliday moved to the window and stared out, a strange elation swelling in his chest. The lighted streets of nighttime Manhattan stretched away in great radial spokes like polychromatic tracer. He saw the image of Joe Kosinski again, grinning with victory like the kid he had been.
Someone appeared at his side, touched his shoulder. Wellman.
‘We’re nearly there, Halliday.’
He nodded, looked up. ‘It’s only a matter of time before we locate the slave,’ he said. ‘But how many more people will he kill before we do that?’
‘We can start by trying to find out the identity of the slave,’ Wellman said. ‘It isn’t a Cyber-Tech employee - only Nigeria and Reeves were implanted. It has to be someone from one of the other cyber-industrial concerns.’
‘Who are the others? Tidemann? Mantoni?’
Wellman looked at him. ‘How did LINx get into the Mantoni VR, Halliday? Joseph claimed it was a closed, secure system.’
‘It got into the Mantoni system to kill Joe, so it could have easily invaded an implanted Mantoni technician.’ Halliday stopped. Something stirred in his memory.
But the person who had killed Barney was a guy, he told himself. He shook his head, cursed his conditioned thinking.
Barney’s killer had been using a chu, of course.
‘Halliday?’ Wellman was saying. ‘What is it?’
Halliday recalled meeting a Mantoni tech implanted with a nano-cerebral interface.
‘I think I know who the other slave is.’ He looked up into Wellman’s staring face.
‘A woman,’ he said. ‘A woman called Kia Johansen.’
* * * *
Fourteen
All day, with mounting desperation, Anna had been searching for her lover.
She had awoken this morning to find Kia still missing, and the apartment without her was like a cage without a bird. The line had remained in her head all day, as she searched their favourite haunts. Perhaps that was why Kia had left. Her life with Anna, their relationship, had become too stifling, claustrophobic; literally, she had considered herself caged and had needed to get away. So she had flown. Anna’s exotic bird had at last spread her wings and taken flight.
Neat metaphor, girl, she told herself more than once, but it’s way out. They had been happy together recently; there had been no reason for Kia to fly off like this. It was so unlike her not to talk, sort out whatever was troubling her. In the past they had discussed everything. Anna knew her lover as well as she knew herself.
It had begun the other day, in the VR room at the Mantoni building. Ever since the glitch in the tank Kia had been withdrawn, moody. She had said that she was working on a technical problem, but she had never before let hitches at work affect her behaviour like this.
That afternoon, as Anna made her round of the cafes and bars in Greenwich Village, a worrying thought had occurred to her. What if something had gone wrong with Kia’s neural implant, seriously affecting her mind? What if some virus had gotten in there, screwing with her mental processes? She had certainly been acting quite unlike herself over the course of the past couple of days. Anna had tried to push the notion to the back of her mind, but again and again it had returned to haunt her.
All afternoon and into the evening, as the promise of snow became a reality and a blizzard came down on the city, she drew a blank at every bar and cafe she tried. She visited friends in the neighbourhood, rang around those who had left the city and settled upstate. No one had seen Kia and in the replies of friends and acquaintances she began to detect the soft note of practised sympathy: they had all been there before, and knew what she was going through. They had all experienced the hurt of lost love, knew the desperation of chasing after errant lovers.
Anna had wanted to say that this was different, that Kia was ill and needed help: medical help, psychiatric help, even technical help, dammit. She had said nothing, though, accepted their smiles and gentle words with forbearance, and continued her search.
Then she struck lucky. She dropped into Val’s place, a centre for alternative women in SoHo, and began asking around. A sister had seen Kia that afternoon entering the ComStore on Broadway. If she hurried, she could get there before it closed at nine.
She took a taxi to the ComStore and almost ran inside, expecting to find Kia linked to one of the terminals. The place was closing and only three people sat staring at the screens, and the sense of disappointment that filled Anna was almost a physical pain.
She made her way back to East Village, went to the local bar and sat by herself with a beer. If she could find Kia, get help for her, then things would be back to normal. She would have the woman she loved and she would never again bewail her fate, fret over her novels that didn’t sell.
She wondered if she was spending too much time on her writing. Often when Kia came home after work, Anna was busy with her latest novel and had little time for conversation. When Kia returned, she told herself, that would change: she would write less and make time for her lover.
Perhaps it was high time she quit trying to write literary novels, she thought. The manuscript she was working on at the moment was no better than any of the others that had been rejected over the past eight years. What made her think that this one, rather than any of the other nine, would catch some editor’s imagination?
The beer was making her morose. If she gave up, then she would never succeed. She would simply write during the day, when Kia was at work, and leave her evenings free. She quickly finished the beer and made her way home.
She let herself in the front door and climbed the stairs to the apartment. She opened the door slowly, aware that she had harboured this last, little hope all day - that when she finally returned home, Kia would be there, waiting for her, full of apologies and remorse. But even as she stepped into the hall, aware of the thumping of her heart, she knew she was kidding herself. The apartment had an empty, unoccupied feel about it.
She moved from room to room, looking for some sign that Kia had come back briefly while she had been out. She returned to the lounge with a bottle of wine and checked her email. Perhaps Kia had thought to contact her . . .
Only one message awaited, from Felicity: the day’s shoot had gone well and could she make it down to the studio for the final shoot tomorrow and the following party? Anna replied that she was working hard on the book and couldn’t possibly make it, then collapsed onto the sofa and took a long swallow of wine.
Perhaps a minute later the wallscreen chimed with an incoming, and her heart jumped.
‘Wallscreen, accept!’
The screen flared, showing not Kia but an attractive blonde woman in an open-plan office. Wherever she was calling from, it was not New York: sunlight spilled through the windows behind the woman.
‘Hello, Anna? Anna Ellischild?’
Anna hugged her legs. ‘Hi.’
‘I’m Elizabeth Mackenzie, an editor at Two Worlds Press, Seattle.’
Anna blinked. Five months ago she had emailed the manuscript of one of her novels to Two Worlds Press, and they awaited the usual rejection. Now she could only nod, mute, hardly daring to believe.
‘I’ve been trying to reach your agent,’ the woman was saying, ‘but she seems to be unavailable. I hope you don’t mind the direct call?’
‘No . . . No, not at all.’
Mackenzie held up a thick printou
t. ‘Everyone here at Two Worlds loved Before Persephone, and I’m delighted to be able to make you an offer for American publication rights.’
Anna heard the words but could not believe them. ‘I . . . excuse me?’
Mackenzie smiled. ‘I’m afraid that we can only offer ten thousand dollars against seven and a half per cent royalties, but we’re an ambitious West Coast publisher with an expanding list.’ She paused. ‘We pride ourselves on the literary quality of our publications, and Before Persephone is a welcome addition to our list. Have you written anything else, Anna?’
She opened her mouth, but the words failed to materialise. She realised that her eyes were leaking tears. She nodded. ‘About eight or nine other novels. This is the first. . . my first sale.’
‘Well, I’d love to read some of the other books. Perhaps you could fly out here in a week or two?’
‘That’d be . . . that would be great, yes.’
‘In the meantime I’ll get the contract to your agent in the next day or two, and I’ll look forward to meeting you soon.’
‘Yes. Thanks
Elizabeth Mackenzie smiled and cut the connection.
Anna sat very still for about five minutes, staring at the blank wallscreen. At last she said, ‘Wallscreen, repeat the last message.’
The screen flared. Elizabeth Mackenzie smiled out at her, no longer merely attractive but stunningly beautiful. ‘Hello, Anna? Anna Ellischild . . .?’
She sat through it again, and then a third time. She wished she had sounded less surprised, wished now that she had thanked the woman adequately, instead of sounding like a cowed schoolgirl being praised by her headmistress for a prize essay.
She had dreamed of this moment for years, and had always seen herself jumping up and down, shouting with delight, but although she experienced a quiet sense of delight, she was aware that something was missing, If only Kia were here to share her good news.
The wallscreen chimed again and Anna sat up, hardly daring to hope that this time it would be her lover. ‘Wallscreen, accept.’
The screen flared. Anna blinked, disappointed. A pretty-faced Chinese girl was smiling out at her. She tried to place the face, sure she would have recalled anyone as strikingly different as her caller. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Anna? Anna . . .’ she was reading the name from a card, ‘Ellischild?’
‘That’s me. Can I help you?’
‘You don’t know me. Apologies for calling so late, but I’m just around the corner and I wondered if I could meet you?’
Anna shook her head in confusion. ‘I’m sorry . . . Have we met?’
‘No. I’m Kim Long. I live with your brother, Hal.’
‘Ah ... I see.’ She looked at the small Chinese girl. ‘Hal’s okay, isn’t he?’
Kim smiled. ‘Oh, he’s fine. Working hard, you know? He’s always working hard.’
‘How can I help you, Kim?’
‘I want to see you and talk about a surprise party for Hal. You see, he’s thirty-five next week. I thought it might be a good idea if we had a surprise party, or maybe small dinner, invite a few friends around.’
‘Well, yes. That sounds great.’
‘Or maybe you have better idea? Could I come and talk?’
Anna hesitated. Her first impulse was to put her off, spend the evening alone, feeling sorry for herself.
She found herself nodding. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve just had some good news. You can be the first person to help me celebrate. Do you have my address?’
Kim Long held up the card. ‘Here. I’ll see you in five minutes, hokay?’
The wallscreen died and Anna shook her head. Why not? She would probably find out more about her brother in the next hour than she would if she talked to him for a whole week.
Minutes later the doorbell chimed and Anna showed Kim through to the lounge. In person, Kim was even smaller and more exquisite than Anna had gathered from the screen.
‘Oh,’ Kim Long said as she entered the lounge. ‘Lovely room, very nice. Positive chi flowing well; did you know that, Anna?’
Anna stared at the diminutive Chinese girl. ‘Chi?’
‘Positive energy.’ She gestured around the room. ‘Everything in right position. The sofa, your desk; you work at the desk?’
Anna nodded. ‘That’s where I do my writing.’
‘The computer against the west wall,’ she observed, nodding sagely. ‘I think you’ll be successful. This is a lucky room.’
Anna smiled. ‘Tonight I found out that I’ve just sold my first book. Can I get you a glass of wine?’
‘Yes, please.’ Kim smiled. ‘You’re a writer? A real book writer?’
Anna nodded, hardly believing it herself. ‘A real book writer,’ she said. She poured two glasses of wine, considering. At last she said, ‘Kim, can you tell by the room if I’ll be lucky in love?’
Kim made a rosebud of her lips and scanned the room. ‘You need tall light in south-west corner, there,’ she said, pointing. ‘And place a model of a duck in the south-west corner of your bedroom, hokay?’
Anna smiled. ‘I might just do that, Kim. Thanks.’
She passed Kim a glass of wine and they sat side by side on the sofa. Anna hugged her legs and stared at the sallow perfection of the girl’s childlike face.
‘How long have you known my brother?’
‘Ten months now. We met at one of the food-stalls I run. I noticed him for weeks, but he never realised how interested I was. You know what men are like. They see nothing until it’s under their noses. So I had to run after him until he noticed.’
Anna nodded. ‘That sounds like my brother. Are you happy with Hal?’
‘I’m happy with him and I tell him this, but he hardly ever tells me he loves me, unless I make him say it.’ She shrugged with resignation. ‘You know men,’ she went on. ‘Are you married, Anna?’
‘Ah . . . no. No, I’m not.’
‘And no boyfriend?’
Anna smiled. ‘Not at the moment. Actually . . .’ She paused, wondering how she might put it. ‘Has Hal never told you about me?’
‘Hal never tells me anything about his life. Sometimes I think his memory has vanished, like the wind.’ Kim raised her glass. ‘Congratulations on selling your book, Anna.’
‘Why, thank you.’ She was about to tell Kim that she had never had a boyfriend in her life when the doorbell chimed. She jumped, almost spilling her wine. ‘Excuse me, I won’t be a second.’
She hurried through the hall. Oh, please, please let it be Kia . . .
She flung open the door.
Kia was leaning against the jamb, staring past Anna.
‘Christ, you don’t know how worried I’ve been . . .’ She stopped. Kia’s right arm hung by her side, and the cloth of her sleeve was caked with blood. ‘Kia . . . what the . . .’ She stepped forward, arms outstretched. She told herself that she should feel angry, betrayed, but all she felt now was a stomach-churning sense of fear and relief.
She tried to hug Kia to her, but she resisted. She pushed Anna away, and the look in her eyes was beyond distant.
‘Kia, I want to help you. What’s happening? Your arm
Kia ignored her, hurried through the hall and into the lounge.
Anna followed, aware of the tears stinging her eyes.
Kim Long had jumped to nervous attention when Kia entered the room, and the contrast between the tiny Chinese woman and the towering African-American was almost too absurd for words.
‘Kia, this is Kim,’ Anna began.
Kia ignored her. She brushed past Kim and crossed the room.
Anna watched, feeling helpless and lost, as Kia folded herself into the swivel chair before the computer. She pulled something from an inner pocket of her knitted jacket, a thick lead terminating in a jack. She plugged one end into the computer and the other into the socket on the right side of her skull.
Anna wanted to cry out, tell her that she was harming herself. She glanced across at Kim, who was wa
tching Kia with an amazed expression.
‘Perhaps . . .’ Kim began. ‘I think maybe I should go?’
Anna’s reaction surprised even herself. ‘No - I mean, please, I’d like you to stay.’ She wondered why she needed the girl’s company right now, told herself that she had nothing to fear from Kia.
Then she was honest with herself, and wondered why the hell she was feeling so afraid.
