Convergence

by Michael Patrick Hicks

  Alice sat beside me, dressed in a business suit, which was the sort of attire I was used to seeing her in. Gone were the cotton shorts and T-shirts of that morning. A double-breasted suit jacket hung loose over a dark, sleeveless blouse. She wore a gold tie and loose slacks, as well as matte pumps over bare feet.

  I was dressed similarly. Polished black tassel shoes. A white shirt with too much starch in the collar. A wide black tie. I hadn’t been dressed that well in more than a decade.

  “I was an artist,” I said. “And a teacher.”

  She raised one well-manicured eyebrow. “Really?”

  I detected hesitancy in her voice, as if she wasn’t quite sure I was serious.

  “Really,” I said. “I taught at City College. Had a few of my drawings published, but nothing big. I was putting together an exhibit at the Da Vinci Gallery before the invasion. I was using DRMR to chronicle memories and the passage of time.”

  “Using your memories?”

  “Some, yes. Some were from friends and family, and some were from students who volunteered.”

  The exhibit was meant to be a display of the human experience. Birth and death. Perceptions on race and culture, prejudice and hate and anger, compassion, and sex. A full-sensory experience. The mems were all raw, unedited, and uncensored life. Visitors would have become intimately familiar with total strangers, vicariously lived numerous lifetimes, and experienced a multitude of moments.

  “You were going to put human memories on display for everyone to share in? How would that have been any different than what corporations were already doing?” She tempered her criticism with a soft smile, but it did nothing to quiet her dismissive attitude.

  “Cheaper admission fees. Not as watered down and sanitized as MemSpace.”

  She wasn’t interested in my deflection, and her gaze persisted, waiting for an authentic answer.

  “I wanted it to be instructive,” I said. “I wanted people to know where it came from, to think a bit more about what this technology is, what it can do, to be aware of what exactly it is they’re sharing with strangers.”

  DRMR began as a military application developed by DARPA. Its goal had been to create better soldiers with better adaptive protocols, through cybernetic implants and bio-regulated software that would control natural neurological responses.

  The Databiologic Receiver of Mnemonic Response captured and decoded the brain’s signals as it responded to stimuli. The DRMR recorded visual reception, cognitive and emotional responses, flight-or-fight reflexes, brainwaves, blood pressure and pulse rates, digestion, and respiration. Built from a series of complex neural nets and bionano interfaces, it tapped into the thalamus, hippocampus, and the intraperietal sulcus, the part of the brain responsible for binding multiple stimuli into a memory.

  DRMR turned human soldiers into ground-based biological military drones, allowing command centers to survey and monitor a fighter’s responses to conditions in the field. By linking a combatant’s standard medichine deployment with DRMR, command could regulate the body’s hormonal responses, delay the onset of shock, and nullify pain receptors. If a soldier was about to panic, his or her superiors could note the biological alterations and take preventive measures to protect both that individual and the entire combat squad.

  DARPA’s corporate sponsors and academic researchers recognized the potential for DRMR in the public sector, particularly in law enforcement, public health, and entertainment. Soon enough, DRMR was adapted for civilian use. As with GPS, the Internet, digital photography, and the microwave, DRMR entered the public sector as barely a blip on anybody’s radar. Slowly and progressively, it built its audience as large, multinational corporations sought ways to expand and exploit it. After surviving a few years on the fringe, the technology exploded across the globe and became a mainstay in everyday use.

  “Were you born with it?” she asked.

  “No. I didn’t get implanted until I was in college.”

  Her smile grew larger. “Ah, a late bloomer.”

  “Young and dumb,” I said.

  Her fingers moved lightly across my knuckles, tracing the line of a vein along the back of my hand.

  “I was born with it,” she said. “First generation, implanted in vitro. I’ve never known a life without the tech.”

  In another twenty years, it was estimated that cybernetically enhanced individuals would outnumber those without it. Already, entire generations, mostly in Asia, were growing up in a constant state of connection, thanks to fetal implants. Some embrace it; others protest its vast potential for misuse.

  “I remember what it was like,” I said. “Before, I mean. We didn’t need all this technology, this invasive constant connection, always on. Now everybody thinks we have to have it, that we’re out of touch without it. Everybody’s one thought away, retinal displays, recordable memories. We’re machines now.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Some of it’s good.” I thought about tripping on DMT, the rush of death and the psychedelics it produced, the adrenaline and dopamine, and the colorful vivid high of expiration. Then I thought about playing back memories of Mesa, of Selene, and of our past life. It left a hollow void that I was quick to push away. “But if I had the option to do it over again, I don’t think I’d let myself become this.”

  I could feel the phantom weight of the cybernetic port behind my ear, and I fingered it impatiently. Suddenly, it made me feel dirty.

  “It’s a culture shift,” she said. “The old versus the new. It’s always been like this, though. Buggies versus cars, print versus digital.”

  Staring deeply in my eyes, she reached behind my ear to pull my hand away from the port. “This is the new normal.”

  “People still have a choice.”

  She shrugged and looked out the window at the blur of destruction that slid by us. “Maybe somewhere else that’s true.”

  My thoughts turned back toward Mesa, and I hoped for her safety. My fingernails worried at a small knot of fabric on the thigh of my pants, picking at the tiny, raised imperfection in the otherwise-smooth plane of cotton. I dug at it, trying to work the knot out to keep myself from going crazy with worry. I needed to fix something, anything, and that was the closest thing I could get my hands on.

  “We’re pulling up to a checkpoint,” Hai said. His voice was tinny through the intercom, and we were separated from him by lightly tinted soundproofed glass. The car began to slow. Traffic was reduced to a long single lane, but the PRC were efficient and quick. They worked in groups. A soldier appeared at the driver’s-side window and exchanged words with Hai. Two other soldiers walked the length of the car on each side, examining the wheel wells and underneath the car. The trunk released with a noisy clunk, and I watched it open then close a moment later. The guards waved us through a short time later.

  “The checkpoints have increased steadily since the bombing a few days ago,” Alice said. “Attacks against the PRC have been growing. It has them nervous.”

  “It’s good to see you’re not,” I said. The checkpoint had caused a spike of nerves in me. They always did, but it dulled quickly as Alice covered my hand with hers.

  “My business has brought me into contact with several members of the PacRim Coalition, and I’ve made friends both here and abroad over the last few years. I have little reason to be nervous.”

  “Is that how you found me?” I asked.

  Her relationship with Kaften had been nagging at me, and I was annoyed by her lack of answers. After goading me into this trip by bringing up Mesa, she’d said very little. What she did say was cryptic and maddening. We’d spent most of the afternoon on opposite sides of her stilt house. She’d meditated while I fumed and worked myself up into an ever-increasing state of aggravation. She had promised answers, telling me I would be able to see it all for myself soon enough.

  “I had learned of Kaften’s attack on the reclamation sites—”

  “Which you had me assigned to, through your litt
le network of friends.”

  She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs. “Yes.”

  “I hope her data chip was worth it.”

  She broke eye contact. She actually seemed sad. “In some ways, yes. In others, no. I had hoped for more, but her memories were still an important recovery.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  She ignored the question, continuing with her earlier train of thought. “After the PRC was able to figure out who had been killed and who was missing, they—”

  I interrupted again. “Kaften took others?”

  “Two men from another site. Three of the work sites were attacked simultaneously. When I learned you were missing, I put out some feelers and learned that Kaften had been responsible.”

  “Does the PRC know he was responsible for the attack?”

  “No. They’ve had a difficult time establishing credible intelligence on his group or where they operate out of. They’re blaming the militias. Liberty’s Children is even taking credit for it.”

  “He asked me about Jaime. He never asked me about you, though.”

  She said nothing.

  “Who is he?”

  “A soldier. Beyond that, I don’t know much about him.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She sighed and plucked at the knee of her slacks. “I am a businesswoman, Jonah. I conduct business with multiple agencies, and I have a broad, diverse list of clients.”

  “You play everybody.”

  “You could say I’m a middleman.”

  “You could say I don’t trust you.”

  “You could say I saved your life.” She smiled, with a hint of a chill. She was enjoying the sparring and was at ease. I relaxed too, a bit.

  “He’s not militia,” I said. “Who is he?”

  She stared at me for a long while, assessing me. “He’s corporate. Private army.”

  “Which means he’s not from here. He came in from over the border. He had help.”

  “I’m sure he did, but you know as well as I do how porous the border really is. How did you know?”

  “His clothes. His behavior. The way he treated me. Things he said.”

  She looked at my shortened index finger.

  “What did you give him?”

  “In the past, I’ve provided him with weapons and armaments, food, fresh water, supplies, and munitions.”

  “And where do you get all those?”

  She shrugged. “As I said, I have a diverse list of clients.”

  “You also said you’re a middleman.”

  “You are unusually questioning today, Jonah. I can’t help but feel that our arrangement has shifted.”

  “Feel whatever the fuck you want. I want answers.”

  She shrugged again. “I already promised them to you.”

  I shrugged, too. “So give them to me.”

  She took a deep breath, reevaluating me. “I provided Kaften with long-range sniper rifles with subsonic sound suppressors, recoil dampeners, and visual acuity upgrades.”

  “Was that for me or for the chip you wanted?”

  A quick stab of pain flickered across her eyes, but the truth had a habit of doing that to people. “Both. You were a package deal.”

  “Why? Why do that for me?”

  Alice took my hand in hers and tugged at my fingers. I loosened my fist, and she ran a finger across the top of my shortened index finger.

  “Because I know what he’s capable of.” She squeezed my hand and met my eyes. “And because I like you Jonah. I do consider you a friend, for whatever that may be worth to you. You’ve been loyal, and I appreciate your services to me.”

  I’d never seen her more heartfelt. She was a woman who casually used words as weapons, but this had been honest and tender. She squeezed my hand again then gently released it and refolded her hands together on her lap.

  “How long has Kaften been here? What does he want?”

  “Several months. And you already know what he wants.”

  Jaime. I sighed heavily, through my nose. “What was on the chip?”

  “You will see soon.” She laughed to soften the aggravation those words brought. “It was a life. A woman’s life. Her name was Ann Cornell, and she was from Des Moines.”

  “But that’s not what you wanted.”

  “It was, in some ways.”

  “But not in others.”

  “No, not in others,” she said. “I believe, in that regard, that I had already found it, thanks to you.”

  “The answer to who killed your parents.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  What she did next surprised me. With one simple movement, she completely disarmed and unnerved me. She slid closer to me, enough so that I could feel her warmth. Her movements were surprisingly comfortable, but the degree of familiarity she had presumed in taking my hand, and by sitting closer to me, put me on edge. Thanks to her, medichines coursed through my body, monitoring my vitals and overall health, making any necessary corrections. What else had been done to me while I was sedated? Alice could have picked apart my brain and studied my memories. Maybe she was attempting to play off familiar associations from my past.

  I stared out the window, telling myself I was being paranoid. I watched her reflection in the glass, and she glanced at me every once in a while. It sent a shiver up my spine.

  The faces that flickered past as we drove into Chinatown grew increasingly sad and somber. The people who lived there usually wore stoic expressions borne of hardship. They’d faced war and racism. Some had been held at gunpoint, shot, or beaten because their skin was too yellow or their eyes too slanted. In the time following the invasion, I’d seen the people there shift through the streets with blank, down-turned faces, but I’d also seen happiness. The people outside appeared haunted. Some were dazed or shell-shocked. I’d seen these expressions before, too many times.

  “The market was attacked two days ago.” Her voice was whisper soft, close to my ear. She was leaning over me, following my gaze. Safe from their eyes behind the tinted glass, we watched slack faces and hollow eyes.

  “A suicide bomber came in the morning, early, while the crowds were thick. Thirty-seven people were killed,” she said. “Another sixty were wounded. The attack was bad.”

  “Who’s claiming responsibility?”

  “The same group that attacked the 101.”

  Jaime. I said nothing, but her eyes searched mine, seeking some sort of confirmation, as if I shared responsibility for this attack.

  “I lost two of my chefs,” she said.

  We were pulling up to her restaurant, one of many side businesses she engaged in. The Tong’s reach was deeper than I had realized, based on what she had been willing to trade to Kaften for my release. The guardian lions reminded me again about yin and yang, about polar opposites. What did that make Alice and me?

  “They were buying fish for that evening’s dinner,” she said.

  I wanted to apologize, but stopped myself. I didn’t have anything to be sorry about; it hadn’t involved me. I had been far away, recuperating beside the ocean in her safe house. And she knew that. But still she expected me to take some of the blame, to share in her sorrow, and to feel contrite. It pissed me off.

  “Were any chips collected?” I asked.

  “We were able to gather a few. Not many.”

  “I’d like to experience them.”

  “I will include them with the others.”

  “Great,” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed briefly, as if she were passing judgment upon me. Whatever closeness had connected us in the car evaporated and was replaced by a sudden gulf.

  I patted a lion on the head as we walked past. Inside, the dining room was dark and mostly empty. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. We ignored the hostess—who was seated behind a small desk decorated with a calendar from 1966, an ancient white rotary telephone, and a small circulating desktop fan—and moved deeper into the building. A few tables had couples. One
held a group of three, and another held four. Two people at the bar, one on each end, were drinking sake, separated by four small bowls of crispy wontons. Aside from a few robotic PetHuman servers dressed in ill-fitting green uniforms resembling 1960s People’s Liberation Army attire, complete with green hats and red arm bands, that was it for the post-lunch crowd.

  The restaurant was a classic take on China’s Red Restaurants, and the themes of the Cultural Revolution were redolent and excessive to the point of mockery. Along the back wall was a large red-toned mural, a rendering of an old propaganda poster of Mao Zedong standing above a group of PLA soldiers, holding a little red book in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. Framed posters were hung between tables. We passed a print of a Red Guard standing over a pile of crucifixes and Buddha statues, ready to deliver a crushing blow with a sledgehammer. The only color in the black-and-white image belonged to Mao’s red armband and the cityscape of the then-new Red China behind him.

  Around us, red brick walls fought their way through white plaster, as if a bomb had gone off, exposing the underside of the revolution. Red Chinese paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, along with several large red Soviet hammer and sickle props and framed pictures of important communists such as Lenin, Marx, Castro, and Tito. Their imagery was miniscule compared to the rife displays of Mao.

  “On Saturdays,” Alice said, “we do shows. We have the PetHumans programmed to reenact stories from the Cultural Revolution, and customers come in to sing and dance. You should see it sometime.”

  I nodded, but said nothing. I watched a man eat dandelions, raw cucumbers, and a small plate of shrimp that would have cost more than fifty dollars before the war. His partner was enjoying a pork dish with a red-bean curd.

  The kitchen was quiet. The PetHuman chefs made precise and swift movements as they prepared the lunch orders and readied the ingredients for the dinner crowd. Alice ignored them, and they paid no attention to us in return. I followed her through the prep area and the storeroom, to a metal door with a retinal scanner and palm pad.