The Naked World

by Eli K. P. William

  “Not if someone somewhere can find a new dream, and I have mine right here: to remake Xenocyst into a beacon of compassion. But I need your help in making that a reality. Perhaps I can help you rediscover your own dream in the process.”

  After all his consummate lying, Amon wasn’t so foolish as to trust what Barrow was saying. And how could Barrow be so certain that the forest Amon saw was the one he had destroyed? It wasn’t as if he could burrow inside Amon’s dreams to check. Still, if Barrow didn’t believe what he said was true, Amon could see no reason he would let him off so easily. Surely he would want to extract more satisfying revenge, however much of a pragmatist he was, than to simply keep Amon in thrall as a servant. So had the forest been destroyed? Amon didn’t know if he was supposed to feel angry or disappointed, but the news hardly disturbed him at all, for all his emotions and mental gibbering were drowned out by a single thought: It’s because of Barrow’s betrayal that my best friend is dead.

  Amon and Rick had dismissed their doubts about Barrow’s loyalty because they believed he truly hated the Opportunity Scientists and the Philanthropy Syndicate, and wanted to use the sabotage to do damage to both. Now Amon saw that they had probably been right about his hatred—but not about his loyalty. For though he had indeed helped Xenocyst to weaken the Full Choice/Absolute Choice coalition, the Philanthropy Syndicate, and the Gyges Circle by cooperating and assisting with the exposé mission, Amon supposed that he had also informed on Xenocyst about said mission just as it was being completed. Once the Syndicate heard this, they had armed the discontented Xenocyst cell Barrow had been cultivating to topple the old leadership, as having them attack the sabotage perpetrators would be far cheaper than employing the Charity Brigade or even drones, since illegal arms trading was more affordable than direct crowdcare. Then with Barrow installed as decision-maker, or at least as puppet figurehead, they could be guaranteed a steady supply of human resources, and perhaps an increase in yield since Barrow would not be hindered by Hippo and the council’s scruples. The damage to Opportunity Peaks showed that the Opportunity Scientists had also been implicated in the sabotage, and Barrow would be well positioned to fulfill his vendetta against them in the future with his new arsenal and power. Having his defectors dress as OpScis so that the Xenocysters were unaware they were being attacked from within would also help him towards this goal, since it would instill hatred in them and thereby make it easier for him to justify whatever antagonistic policies he chose—perhaps one day even war. In this way, Barrow had brilliantly played all sides against each other to his advantage as only a political prodigy like him could. Now, as an added bonus, his ID assassin had been delivered helpless to his stronghold.

  But Amon didn’t care what Barrow might do to him. All he could think about was Rick and his friends, and this called forth the rage he’d felt outside the elevator that morning. Still, there was nothing he could do about it. His duster had been taken from him and armed men stood not meters away. He had discerned his predicament too late, making Little Book’s cryptic message all for naught. Unless—T? Tea!

  Spish! Kachink! Amon flung his tea in Barrow’s face and cracked the lip of his teacup against the metal bar running along the edge of the coffee table, splitting the cup in half. In the next instant, before Barrow could get to his feet, Amon lifted the coffee table with his foot to hurl it at at him. While Barrow brought his arms up to block the table, Amon jumped to his feet and leapt over the couch in front of him. Then, spinning around quickly as Barrow’s hands whipped down reflexively to catch his precious antique before it fell, he wrapped his left arm around Barrow’s chest and put the sharp edge of the broken cup to his throat, causing Barrow to release the now-cracked coffee table, which hit the ground with a clunk and a rattle.

  “Raise an alarm and that voice of yours is done!” hissed Amon, keeping the point of the shard close against the top of Barrow’s neck. The three guards now had assault dusters trained on Amon, but Barrow’s body shielded him. Little Book, Amon realized, was nowhere to be seen, his tapping having stopped some minutes ago. “Tell them to put the dusters on the floor in the middle of the room!”

  “P-put them on the floor as he says,” said Barrow, trembling with fear.

  “Tell them to stand against the wall away from the door.”

  “S-stand against the wall away from the door.”

  The three guards did as instructed, and backed up against the wall to the right of the door, just left of where the stacks began.

  “If anyone enters, tell them to stand with the others and do the same, got it?!”

  Barrow’s neck twitched slightly as he began to nod and then felt the sharp ceramic on his throat and immediately stopped. “Y-yes,” he stuttered instead.

  Sure enough, two men drawn by the commotion burst into the room and wheeled the barrels of their assault dusters towards Amon and Barrow.

  “K-k-keep quiet and put your weapons on the floor with the others,” said Barrow.

  The men had already taken aim, and stood there unmoving, looking confused.

  “Put them on the f-floor with the others,” Barrow repeated. “And stand with the other men. No noises.”

  The two men hesitated for a moment, exchanged glances with each other and the other men, and then reluctantly placed their weapons on the floor, sliding them over to the pile before lining up against the wall. There were now six dusters in the middle of the room—five assault dusters and Amon’s pistol-sized nerve duster—plus five men standing near the exit, tense and unsure what to do.

  “What kind of dusters are those?” Amon called out to the men.

  They froze nonplussed.

  “I asked a fucking question!” snarled Amon.

  “He asked you a question,” echoed Barrow.

  “Fight’R’flight,” said a man with a crooked jaw and deep-set eyes. “And typhoid.”

  “Okay. You. The one who just spoke,” said Amon. “Go over to the weapons … Now! But no quick moves!”

  Crooked Jaw hesitated. Then, under Barrow’s urging stare, edged slowly over to the weapons.

  “Slide the nerve duster over to me with your foot,” Amon said.

  “Do as he says.”

  Crooked Jaw put his foot on top of the nerve duster and slid it down the aisle beside the shelves and couch ends. It was a good, straight slide, and the duster stopped perfectly alongside Barrow and Amon.

  “Kneel down,” Amon told Barrow.

  Barrow knelt and Amon went down with him, switching the shard to his left hand to keep it against his neck. He then snatched up the duster with his right hand, put it in his holster, and said, “Stand up.”

  Barrow stood up and Amon went up with him.

  “Tell the man who spoke to pick up one of the dusters,” Amon whispered.

  “Pick up a duster,” said Barrow, looking at the man indicated.

  Crooked Jaw paused for a moment to consider the pile of dusters and picked one up.

  “Tell him to shoot his four friends.”

  “Shoot your four friends.”

  “What?!” said the man, and the line of four men began to shift restlessly on their feet as though readying themselves to act.

  “Do you want him to die?” Amon put a slight bit of pressure into the shard.

  “Glah,” Barrow choked as his trembling intensified.

  “Do you want to be blamed for the death of your new leader when so little has been settled here? Do you want the crowds of his supporters who gave up everything to tear you limb from fucking limb?”

  “Shoot!” said Barrow, his voice pinched but lilting beautifully.

  The tallest of the four men said, “Don’t be crazy. You’re not shooting us.”

  “Yeah fuck that!” said another. “We’ll kick the shit out of you if you even try.”

  “Shoot them or I’ll make sure you end up just like the councilors!” Barrow growled.

  What had Barrow done to the councilors? To Hippo? To everyone else? Amon felt his hand
pressing the shard harder into Barrow’s throat.

  “Agggh!” Barrow cried in pain, and a drop of blood trickled down his throat.

  “Yaaaaah!” One of the four men who’d remained silent let out a battle cry as he began to charge the one with the gun.

  “Shoot!” barked Barrow. “Shoot now!”

  Crooked Jaw fired—chrinkle—and the charging man suddenly stopped, turned around, and dashed out the door, the fight’R’flight dust having switched on his instinct to flee.

  Another man began to make for the door in the wake of the first, and Crooked Jaw aimed at him reflexively.

  “Shoot!” shouted Amon, knowing the dusted man was too absorbed in mindlessly running away to sound the alarm—but worried the second might.

  “Shoot!” echoed Barrow.

  Chrinkle. Crooked Jaw fired again. The fleeing man turned around, his fight instinct overstimulated, and lunged for the nearest of his comrades with over-expanded, bloodthirsty pupils but an incongruously calm expression, grabbing him by the shoulder and punching him in the face.

  As the two men began to brawl, Amon whispered, “The other two men.”

  “Shoot the other two!” Barrow yelled.

  When Crooked Jaw hesitated, the remaining two men, seeing what was coming, both dove in two different directions in the same instant, one to take cover in the lane behind the stacks and the other for the pile of dusters. Chrinkle. In that split second, Crooked Jaw chose to fire at the one going behind the stacks, by which time the other man already had a duster in his hand and was whipping the barrel up just as Crooked Jaw shifted his aim. Chrinkle. The diving man fired first and hit Crooked Jaw, who had a 50/50 chance of either fighting or fleeing since he was doing neither at that moment and dropped his duster before pouncing on the man who’d shot him, and the man behind the stacks came barreling out towards them with arms outstretched.

  Amon began to push Barrow towards the doorway, but the other two men were still brawling there, the dusted man kneeing the other in the kidney as the non-dusted man pummeled his chest. Amon switched the shard to his left hand again and drew his duster, pointing it at them as he edged towards the doorway with Barrow in front of him. While he didn’t want to shoot them in case their screams might draw reinforcements (if the fight hadn’t already), he wanted to keep them in his sights for fear the fight-dusted man would go berserk on Amon or Barrow if they stepped into his field of vision or that the undusted man would attack Amon. In the corner of his eye, Amon saw the other three men all in a tangle slam into a bookshelf as he came within a few paces of the doorway. If he could just slip past them—

  The two brawlers suddenly lurched, bumping Amon on the side and sending his shard a few centimeters away from Barrow’s neck for a split second, whereupon Barrow ducked under Amon’s arm, went to the floor, and scrambled away. Amon whipped his duster around to target Barrow but he was already out the door. Shouldering aside the two brawling men, Amon leapt out into the medical equipment–cluttered hallway to see Barrow running to the left, calling, “Intruder! Intruder! All guards! Intruderrrrr!” his clear, resonant voice seeming to ring the walls.

  Gwong-ng-ng-ng-ng went the sound of the landing signal and whoozt whoozt whoozt whoozt the chopping helicopter as it approached. Suddenly time seemed to freeze as Amon was presented with a choice.

  Barrow was headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall that led down to the ground floor and up only as high as the fifteenth floor, well short of the roof where the PhantoCopter was landing. To Amon’s right was another stairwell that ran all the way up, the sound whoozt whoozt whoozt whoozt of the copter’s spinning blades beckoning Amon to the only safety he could hope for. All he had to do was dust Barrow and fight his way to the roof, and he might get out of this hellish trap. But when he saw Barrow stumble and bash into a crash cart, sending a tray of used medical equipment flying before tumbling to the floor of the hallway, Amon remembered what Barrow had just said about the councilors and thought of Hippo and Vertical and Ty and Book, and saw Rick crying himself to death in the elevator just that morning, the wet sound of his cold hand dropping to the floor when he finally released it, and rage filled him anew—rage like he’d never known before—an inferno of rage that consumed his mind with a crackling roar. What did it matter if it was Amon who had plunged him into the camps? The time for guilt and compassion was long past. It was for these weak, pointless feelings that he had given Barrow the chance to betray them and stayed to concoct his plan that had gone so horribly wrong, his efforts to help others and make up for his sins turning to harm and punishment, as all such efforts must in this sick world. The only question that remained was who deserved it, and the thought that this deceitful demagogue would remain here, in charge of this community with his special luxuries from the venture charities, and his power, and his analog treasures, was unbearable, agonizing, and Amon charged straight for him while holstering his duster in mid-stride, caught him just as he was getting to his feet, grabbed him by the back of his right shoulder with his left hand and yanked to spin him around. Thrunch, thrunch, thrunch, thrunch. Amon’s vision went white, only the sensation of his fist connecting with something soft and crunchy remaining in his awareness.

  The sound of footsteps behind brought him back to his senses and he released his grip, stilling his pummeling arm.

  “Glrawr,” gurgled Barrow as he flopped to the floor, the muscles of his warped, bloody mash of a face convulsing, his hands scrabbling for his throat, where Amon realized he had been directing his storm of punches.

  What have I done? thought Amon, spinning around to head for the stairwell leading to the roof as he drew his duster, hoping to flee from the maimed man at his feet, from his lapse in control. Immediately the footsteps grew louder, as four guards stepped down into the landing of the stairwell and one of the undusted men in the library popped out from the doorway in front of them, covered in bloody scratches and bite marks, all of them wielding assault dusters.

  Chrinkle. Chrinkle. Chrinkle. Amon fired his duster first at the man near the library and then the four near the landing. The first went down with a scream but the others leapt for cover, two down the stairs and two up. There was no way Amon could make it to the other end of the hallway with four armed guards stationed where they were, and surely more men would follow soon. In the time it had taken him to wreak vengeance on Barrow, he had lost his chance to go to the roof and meet with Rashana. Suddenly filled with regret, but with no time to dwell on his decision, Amon did another about face and reached behind him with his duster to fire round after round to keep the men from returning to the landing as he dashed his way to the stairwell leading down.

  “Intruder!” croaked Barrow behind him. His voice—carrying a raspy high-pitched hum like a half-clogged vacuum cleaner—was ruined.

  Whoozt whoozt whoozt whoozt. The sound of the rotorcraft faded as Amon descended, with nowhere left to go in the naked world.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I began my second novel feeling confident that it would be easier to write than the first one because I already knew how to write a novel. I failed to realize that the unique approach it demanded would make much of what I thought I had learned writing my debut useless. Such authorial hubris may be as old as storytelling itself.

  To overcome the parade of unexpected challenges I faced, I relied on the support of many people.

  Thanks again to Ashley Davies, Chris Molloy, Logan Fulcher, Daniel E. K. Priest, and Eleanor Cruise for putting up with the (no doubt grueling) earlier drafts of yet another of my novels. (If they persevere through the final book in the trilogy, I will count myself blessed.)

  Thanks to Alex Klotz for his ideas and expert assessment of the science.

  To Perry Ge for his stimulating analysis and discussion about the first half.

  To Robert Priest for his appropriately brutal comments on a later draft.

  To David Boyd for reassuring me that the large scale overhaul was worthwhile.

  To M
arsha Kirzner for the finishing touch of her fine-toothed comb.

  To my agent, Monica Pacheco, for her concise but incisive comments and continuing support.

  A special thanks to everyone who emailed me or gave me a shout out on social media to say how much they enjoyed Cash Crash Jubilee. The bleak, oppressive mood of The Naked World often seeped into my spirits as I was writing it, and while I never dreamed of giving up, there were periods, especially in the winter of 2015/2016, when I slipped into a dark, introverted muddle. The kind words of complete strangers helped me in part to overcome that. I’ve written articles in the past that people presumably read, but this is the first time I’ve had interactions with those people and learned what it feels like to have “readers.” There’s nothing more encouraging than knowing there are people who resonate with my work and I am profoundly grateful that there are a few of them out there.