Convergence

by Michael Patrick Hicks

  He swiped my identity card and logged my return to the camp. I saw my record appear on the air display between us, listing my daily movements into and out of the camp, guard notes, and my photograph—which was the same as the one on my ident card. At the top of it all, my name, Jonah Everitt, was written in all caps.

  “Why did you go into the city?” he asked.

  “I was meeting friends at a restaurant in Century City.”

  “Refugees?”

  “No,” I said. “They live in Chinatown.”

  The guard nodded to me, and I nodded back, smartly deferential.

  “Take off your shoes and socks. Go to Line Five for reentry.”

  I did as instructed. Line Five was long and slow moving. After twenty minutes, I passed through a metal arch and a denser cloud of security sniffers. Shoes and socks in hand, I walked barefoot to my tent.

  Once there, I shrugged out of my coat and fell onto my cot. The day’s work was catching up with me. I got up again, long enough to grab a nearly empty bottle of honey whiskey from my footlocker. It had been payment from the last job I had done for Jaime. Then I fished the DRMR unit from my coat pocket. I uncoiled the wire and plugged it into the data port behind my ear. I untwisted the bottle cap and took a quick hit. The thick, warm whiskey’s heat was familiar and offered a bit of a bite against the taste of aged oak.

  I remembered the jolt of adrenaline as I had walked into the motel room. My heart rate had spiked; my mouth had gone dry. I could have left, and a little remnant of instinct, of that fight-or-flight reflex, kicked in. But I had ignored it, clamped it down. The chiang, though—his emotions had been palatable, intense. I was excited to feel the moment of death from his perspective.

  I took another slug of whiskey and held it in my mouth for a moment, savoring it. Then I swallowed and the let the odd chill and heat soak deep into my chest.

  I hit play.

  A grotesque electrical charge jolted through me, sparking neurons in my brain. A white light blasted through my cerebral cortex and optic nerves. Everything went blindingly bright for moments buried atop moments. An eternity of moments. This is how death feels. Invigorating. As my heart raced and pulse skyrocketed, my brain fought against the violent, foreign memory, against the shock, not knowing if it was alive or dying. A massive chemical dump, a deep, long aching undercut a sudden throbbing that stitched its way from my forehead to the crown of my skull. I could feel my hippocampus burning, like a ram’s horn on fire in the center of my skull, feeling the flames, seeing the flames. Everything was amped way the fuck up. A building pressure spread a joyful ache through my groin, and I barely felt or heard the groan that escaped me before the sudden splash of wetness. This was death. This was life. Such beautiful pain, a cracking shot of noise and deafness. The whiteness slowly dissolved, then the walls of my tent snapped back into focus. My chest heaving, unable to catch my breath, I gasped for air. My winded lungs were sore.

  Felt good. Felt so good.

  Do it again. Hit play. The blast of white. My head throbbed under the searing heat and pain of shattered bone. My chest caught fire, heart racing so hard it felt ready to tear itself apart at the seams. My lungs were burning; each breath was agony. Beautiful pain. I screamed silently, my shouts lost to the buckling inside my skull. Throbbing and cracking, my bones shattered under the weight of memory.

  This was death.

  Cold eyes watching me.

  A stranger’s eyes.

  My eyes.

  “Please,” I said. “Please don’t.”

  Then the pitch tunnel staring coldly, as the gun is raised before me. A flash of light. Pain. Shock. Brutal. Short. Infinite.

  I sat very still for a long time, trying to collect myself. I could finally breathe again, but I struggled to get my thoughts straight. I debated taking another hit and decided not to.

  My arm was heavy as I reached behind my ear and unplugged the DRMR.

  I was cold with flop-sweat chills. I couldn’t shake the image of the hooker’s fat, bruised lips, the trail of tears that had run down her face, or the impressions of fingers and nails on her neck and breasts. I raised the bottle to my lips and finished it.

  I had to meet with Alice Xie the next day. The sun had set already. I was spent and hungry, but going to the mess hall, or to Jaime’s for dinner, meant moving, and moving was too much work. I had noodles, but no fresh water. Both were too much work. I slipped the DRMR under my cot, then pushed my arms under the pillow as I rolled onto my side. I slept, and later, I woke up haunted.

  Chapter 2

  I was craving a hot dog, which was a rarity in these times. Used to be, I could find them almost anywhere in Los Angeles, but not anymore. The PRC had upset the balance, upended everything.

  Lunch was a bowl of yakisoba across from the wishing well in Chinatown. Having a Chinatown seemed redundant nowadays. Funny thing was, this part of town used to be known as New Chinatown. Old Chinatown, between Alameda and Macy, had been torn down back in the late 1800s to make way for Union Station. After the PRC arrived, almost everywhere along the Pacific became Chinatown.

  American towns didn’t exist anymore, not really, and not for a long way from the coast. Small pockets in the Midwest and along the Bible Belt, south of the DC ruins along the East Coast, clung to a dying heritage. Much of what was once the US had been co-opted between Canada and rival territories that had fought to carve out independent swatches of nation-states. The Northern Alliance ran from Maine down through the New York mainland and into Ohio and the southern regions of Michigan and Wisconsin. Their reach was extending farther west, with the aid and support of European and Canadian allies, but progress was slow, and some states had found they enjoyed their independence. Farther down the map, a group of Texan militias had carved out the Southwest Conclave, starting with Dallas and Fort Worth, and then worked their way up through the lower reaches of Oklahoma, creating a violent stretch of land that extended as far west as Phoenix and south of Chihuahua. The cartels in Juarez, along with the Mexican Army they largely controlled, hadn’t reacted well to the Conclave’s incursions and maintained a nearly constant state of war. Some states, such as Washington and Oregon as well as the upper reaches of Idaho and Montana became, or were in the process of becoming, Canadian provinces. The map had changed rapidly and left a lot of people without a nation.

  I swirled the fried wheat noodles and chopped cabbage around a good-sized chunk of pork then dipped it in a small bowl of mayonnaise. Between bites, I drew a sketch on a small piece of e-paper. Before the war, I had been a small-time artist who taught art history at a local community college. I had carried paper and a digipencil at all times, to draft thumbnail images, jot down notes, or quickly compose scenes or ideas. The city, its people, its architecture—I drew all of it. Decades’ worth of practice had constantly refined and honed my skills and techniques. I rarely drew anymore, and even though I hardly used the tools, I occasionally found myself carrying them with me, just in case. I embraced this minor return to my old life, the small feeling of normalcy.

  A small girl leaning over a waist-high red brick wall threw pennies into the wishing well. The well was a decrepit mess of green paint chipping away to an ugly brown. Golden Buddha statues flanking the monstrosity were the only parts of the façade that were truly well maintained. I filled in the details of my sketch of her, getting the pose right. Her coins clinked off the metal cups. In front of the cups were white cards with blue lettering, identifying each—money, wealth, love, surety. She was wishing for one of everything. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, with long shiny black hair that reached down between her shoulder blades. More coins went toward love, and I doubted her wishes would ever come true. If she kept spending coins on love, she would never accumulate wealth.

  I thought of my daughter, Mesa, then about wealth, love, and money, and how tied up each are in one another.

  I was losing my appetite. I ate a few thin slices of ginger to cleanse my palette, then checked the time
.

  I spent a few minutes roughly filling in the details of the well and the girl. I had a rough outline of the composition, mostly simple markings of the landscape and a skeleton of ovals and circles that would need to be refined and filled in to resemble the girl. Later, if I felt the need to continue, I could review the memories and draw it all in greater detail, with more focus, and give the image depth and clarity and really bring it all to life on the page.

  I was lying to myself. The paper would be tossed aside, and the sketch, abandoned. I folded the e-paper and pocketed it, along with the digipencil. I had already forgotten the scene as I tossed the paper plate and the cheap, plastic utensils into a public garbage can.

  A couple of PacRim soldiers came out of the Plum Tree. They said something to the girl that made her face redden, and she ran off, her head down and shoulders slumped. They gave me a hard look. As I walked, I checked out the reflections in the glass storefronts and saw the men were following me. I kept my pace moderate, not leisurely or lazy, but not fast, either. I turned down Dai hok gai. When I was a kid, too long ago, it had been College Street, with a few Chinese symbols below the English name. The English names were gone, stripped off all of the street signs. Maybe up in Seattle or Portland, maybe farther up the coast or deeper inland, street signs were printed in English, but not around here. Not anymore.

  Behind me, the PRC turned, following me. Both were thin, but well-toned. One had dyed his hair a bright, unnatural yellow, but didn’t care to hide the dark roots. The other was shaved bald. Their thumbs were hooked into their belts. Each had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder, a Type 56, similar to the AK-47s the Russians were fond of. I wasn’t worried, just wary.

  I slowed my pace a little, waiting for a reaction. Either they would slow, which meant they were interested in me, or they would walk on by. They slowed. I looked in the windows as I passed the storefront, pretending something caught my interest. They walked by, slowly, staring at me in the reflection.

  Their gazes hovered over me as they passed. I noticed a distinct black freckling around their eyes, tiny dots placed at regular intervals encircling their orbits. I pegged them for battlefield enhancements, microcybernetic upgrades to provide feedback on battle conditions and enemy locations. They were probably analyzing my heart rate, pulse, and blood pressure, looking for any indication that I was a threat and not just some pathetic white guy in Chinatown. The blond said something that caused his partner to snicker. If they had picked up anything in my vitals, they apparently chalked it up to nerves and moved on. I stayed at the storefront, looking at an assortment of jade jewelry and wood-carved statues finished with a high-gloss red lacquer of elephants, dragons, and Buddhas.

  I lingered and window-shopped until the PRC soldiers were farther down the block. Whites sometimes had problems after the war and occupation, especially if we were tagged as refugees. Blacks and Hispanics had it even worse and were often subjected to random searches, which typically led to beat-downs if they were considered to be belligerent or disrespectful. Sometimes, they were shot in the head outright. Los Angeles was a dangerous little corner of the DMZ for everyone, regardless of color. Most people didn’t need a reason to kill, but for a lot of the old Americans, killing the Chinese was par for the course. Immense hostility was boiling beneath the surface, seeking an outlet. A lot of people were able to let it go, after a time. Some, though, some never could—and didn’t want to. They found things to occupy their time, but thoughts of revenge were always curled up somewhere in their minds.

  Red paper lanterns hung over the street, stretched between the buildings. A gentle breeze sent them bobbing and carried food smells from the many vendors and restaurants. The air was thick with the smells of frying oil, rice, meat, and vegetables, along with the crackling noises of fat and water hitting hot oil. Steam rose from the open-air kitchens while elderly men and women busied themselves in the cramped confines between hot ovens and stovetops. The thin wooden countertops were crowded with a shifting influx of the hungry and their lunch orders. People sat at small tables, alone or clustered in parties of two or three. Others ate while walking, leisurely scooping rice with their chopsticks or capturing chunks of bite-sized meat or fish. The square was crowded, but I stood out. Maybe that’s what had captured the attention of the PRC. I was an old white guy, about a head taller than everyone else there, wandering after lunch, with no real purpose. As far as they were concerned, I should have eaten and left, or better still, never stepped foot in this part of town to begin with. Instead, I moved with no real direction, my head held high while those around me kept their eyes downcast as they moved quickly along the sidewalks.

  An old man watched me. His face was coiled with wrinkles, the flesh paper-thin. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and his hands were busy prepping stir-fry at a chop station beside a steaming stove. The knuckles of his callused fingers were large and gnarly, twisted from arthritis. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes. His hair stood out from his liver-spotted skull in puffy, white tufts. He watched me, his butcher’s knife quickly dicing onions, carrots, and garlic. Chop, chop, chop. Staring at me all the while. I nodded to him. He nodded back, then motioned me around the corner, to the alley beside his food hut.

  I followed a shallow stream of water gurgling along the gutters in a fast current that spilled into a storm drain. A violent storm the night before had dumped rain and lots of lightning. In this alley, in this gutter, a lot of blood had probably mixed with the rainwater, turning this tiny river red. Fish blood, chicken blood—and people blood, too, more than likely.

  About halfway between Dai hok gai and Lei Min, a black sedan was parked outside a Chinese restaurant. A pair of large cement lions guarded the restaurant’s entryway—the statue feature was typical of this part of town. The lions always came in pairs, male and female. The male had one front paw resting atop a globe that represented the earth, while the female restrained a small cub. I had read that they were representations of yin and yang, a concept that reflects on the interdependency of polar opposites. Considering the damage Alice and I could do to one another if either of us were compromised, I figured the philosophy was about right. The lions also were a symbol of protection. I hoped that was right, too.

  The driver’s door opened, and a wiry man in a tuxedo stepped out. Hai opened the rear door and waved me inside.

  “Nǐ Hǎo,” Alice Xie said. I returned the greeting with a perfunctory nod. Her bodyguard closed the door for me and climbed back in behind the wheel, where he was separated from us by a thick pane of soundproof glass.

  “There were no problems?” she asked.

  I fidgeted a bit, straightening my coat, trying to get comfortable. “Nothing unusual.” I slowly reached inside my pocket and removed the antistatic bag and the small crystalline data chip inside it.

  She smiled as she took it. “An entire life in the palm of my hand.”

  The cheap advertising slogan had become an even more tired joke. Nobody said that kind of shit anymore without irony, especially not Alice Xie, considering her line of work. Judging by her smile and the glint in her eye, it may have even been intentional.

  Alice was a higher-up in the Bing Kong Tong, the Chinese mafia. She was slender and beautiful. When she turned her head, still smiling, to glance out the window, her long neck imparted a certain grace. She favored sleeveless blouses, to show off the toned arms she worked to maintain, and knee-length skirts or capris that displayed equally nice calves. Her beauty caused a lot of people to underestimate her. People like the chiang. And, as the chiang had learned, those who underestimated her usually wound up dead. If they survived, it wasn’t without grievous injuries. Of that, there was no “usually.”

  Her long black hair was tied off close to her scalp and draped around the front of her chest. It helped to hide the breast she’d lost to cancer in her teens. She had never told me, but I had heard things. I had caught a glimpse of scar tissue once, through the armhole of a sleeveless blouse. The glimpse had been
quick and casual, but she knew I’d seen, and that was enough. I’d heard she was also missing a toe because of a simple mistake she’d made at an even younger age. To prove she had learned her lesson later in life, the man who had taken the toe had lost his head.

  “It’s hard to believe,” she said. “A person’s entire existence on something so small.”

  The data chip was about the size of my thumbnail. I nodded agreeably, not sure what to say, itching to get out of the car. She seemed to be in a rare philosophical mood, and I didn’t have the patience for it.

  “You’re not even going to ask what is so important, are you? Which memory he had that I would kill to possess?” She smirked and stared me in the eyes, daring me to ask.

  I shook my head. I’d done jobs for her in the past and never asked about those, either. I figured those kinds of questions were above my pay grade, and I didn’t really want to know why some people needed others killed or why they wanted it so badly they would farm it out to others. We’d done this dance before.

  “Nope,” I said, wishing I had a cigarette. I’d gleaned enough during my earlier playbacks to get the gist.

  The chiang’s offenses were many. He had a penchant for hookers and enjoyed snorting posh. Mostly, he was a power whore who believed that being of rank in the PRC put him above the Bing Kong Tong. Xie thought otherwise, but had briefly allowed the man his delusions. Acting against him directly would have drawn too much attention to her organization, and although they had many resources, the Tong could not sustain open warfare against the PRC. If they could find an intermediary, though… using a third party to solve their problem could draw official attention away from the Tong. Unofficially, those PRC soldiers who enjoyed the Tong’s more nefarious offerings would also be made aware of the costs associated with betraying them. The small crackdown that was sure to follow the chiang’s murder would be nothing that would break the tong, but it would at least allow the PRC to save a little face. In the end, everyone broke even.