Street Freaks

by Terry Brooks

  She has recognized him, he thinks.

  She knows who he is.

  He forces himself to look back, and she smiles at him. Red hair, white skin, dimples. Metal jewelry decorates one ear and an eyebrow. Tattoos cover one side of her neck, disappearing inside her too-tight sheath. She seems friendly. He forces himself to smile back. She doesn’t recognize him after all. She is only flirting. She takes out a bag of Sparx, unwraps one, and sticks it in her mouth, winking at him. She points to her hair, short and spiky, and then to his, which is similar, and makes an approval sign. He nods, shrugs.

  But when she starts to inch her way closer, T.J. notices. Without a word, he moves next to Ash, wraps his arms around him possessively, and turns him around so that their faces are inches apart.

  “Pretend you like me,” he says. “Hug me.”

  Ash embraces him, and the girl gets the message and turns away.

  “Another potentially embarrassing romance nipped in the bud,” T.J. announces, smirking as he releases him. “What is it with you and pleasure synths, fish? You need to recognize them when you see them. Didn’t Cay teach you anything?”

  T.J. is back to referring to him as “fish.” Ash doesn’t like it. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

  T.J. shakes his head. “You’re leaving us. That means you’re back to being a member of the general population. Might as well get used to it. Fish.”

  He seems almost gleeful, using that teasing tone of voice. They ride the rest of the way in silence, standing close without looking at each other. Ash occupies his time thinking about what he will say to his uncle when they connect. He works on making up an explanation. He cannot mention the Street Freaks crew or the Shoe. He will have to come up with a story about where he has been and what he has been doing that doesn’t include them. It will not be easy.

  For just a minute, he considers the possibility that this is a huge mistake and he should have stayed where he was.

  The #35 slows to a stop. They are at Metro Central. The bulk of the passengers disembark, Ash and T.J. with them. Following the crowd, they walk down the platform and climb the stairs to the cavernous hub station where voices echo and reader boards dazzle with light and sound. News, advertising, substem connections, and scheduling information. United Territories alerts scroll. There he is, and he looks away at once. He doesn’t need to study it, doesn’t want to think about it for fear even that small act will somehow call attention to him.

  They pass through the central hall and out onto the open streets where T.J. hands him a mask.

  “Put this on. We have to look like everyone else while we’re here.”

  He has already donned his own, so Ash does the same. “Don’t look at anyone. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t stop for anyone. Got it?”

  Ash nods. They step outside the station. T.J. is right. Almost everyone around them is wearing breathing masks. Without one, they would draw attention.

  “No one will give us a second look with crowds this size,” T.J. says, his voice muffled by the mask. “We’ll just blend in. Come on, the vidview we want isn’t far.”

  They set out along the walkway, sticking close to each other. There are thousands of people, all pressing ahead with as much speed as they can manage. All are wearing breathing masks. No one in the Metro wants to be out in the open without one. Ash remembers his father quoting statistics about how dangerous the air in L.A. is. Worse elsewhere, he used to say. Unimaginable in much of Mongol-China, but with hundreds of millions of people crowded together over there, Ash imagines a few thousand deaths mean nothing.

  Yet in the Red Zone, breathing masks are disdained. As if those who live there care nothing for their health. As if they are invulnerable to disease. As if the Zone is impervious to the ills of the larger city. True, the air is better there for whatever reason, and the inhabitants must have built up some sort of immunity over the decades. But still, he can’t quite wrap his mind around the casual disregard everyone seems to have for the masks.

  They walk for blocks. Ash asks why there isn’t a substem closer to ORACLE than Metro Central, which causes T.J. to snort derisively. “Think about it, fish. If you were running the Calzonian regional

  government, would you want to put a substem right under your nose? Would you want all these stinking, disease-ridden, dumbass voters pouring out of their skanky trains into your backyard?”

  Ash sees his point. The government is comprised of men and women who view themselves as elites. They claim to be one with the people, but he hasn’t seen much in his short life that suggests they believe this is true. He has heard the politicians speak; they all sound the same. He has listened to his father talk about how many decisions have delayed rather than advanced projects that could make life better. He has seen what failure to regulate and protect natural resources has done to their world.

  Once, something might have been done to better conserve crucial resources. Now, all that’s left is management of what little remains. They are reduced to replicating what was lost, using synthetic imitations. Half the trees in greater L.A. are plastic. Flowers bloom and die in a day. Water is recycled through vast reclamation projects that span entire city blocks. Every effort smacks of desperation.

  The brave new world of genetics has made a stab at improving life, but the results are mixed. The Street Freaks kids are examples of what has been tried and continues to be tried in an effort to conserve, manage, and reinforce the population. But not everyone believes this is the way to go. Not everyone likes the idea of salvaging damaged bodies, of remaking humans into hybrids, of creating ’tweeners. Not everyone believes that inventing various types of bots to provide services is natural. Many believe the makeup of the human species should not be tampered with.

  Even though the world’s population is not growing but declining due to multiple causes. Wars, pandemics, dwindling resources for food and water, poisons in the air, homicides—the direction things are heading seems irreversible.

  Almost no one seems to think the world is a better place than it once was, himself included. Yet suspicions of artificial humans continue to persist.

  It occurs to him suddenly that it has been two days since he has taken ProLx, and he is out in the open air with hundreds of people around him, exposing himself to all sorts of viruses and germs with no protection for his immune deficiency condition. It has been two days since Cay sent his DNA sample to the diagnostics lab, and he has heard nothing back.

  Surreptitiously, he glances at the people walking past. Most don’t even see him. No one looks at much of anyone. They pass each other as if they are alone, isolated from everyone else. He sees faces that look red and feverish. He sees faces that are pale and haggard. He sees the possibility of sickness everywhere. He tries not to breathe too deeply, tries to avoid breathing at all. He shouldn’t be afraid, but he is. He has lived so long believing he is more susceptible to illness than other people that it is difficult to believe anything else. His father has told him it is the truth.

  But what if his DNA sample reveals it is a lie?

  What then?

  Ahead, a huge steel and glass building rises out of the stone-block jungle of lesser buildings that surround it, a heroic structure among ordinary constructs. It is intimidating beyond anything Ash has ever seen. It is huge and brilliant, the light reflecting off its surfaces in diamond flashes, the facade a seemingly impenetrable barrier. Broad, sweeping stairs wrap the entire front of the building, emphasizing the girth and weight of the structure. A solitary elevator at one end of the front of the building provides access to a secondary entry for those who cannot manage the stairs, but its location and diminished size make clear that the handicapped must manage as best they can.

  T.J. brings them to a halt a dozen yards from the bottom of the stairs. “ORACLE Central. Intimidating piece of construction, isn’t it?”

  Though there are walkways fronting the building, passersby avoid getting close, choosing to walk on the other
side of the empty street. When robo-taxis land, they do so a block away. A closer look reveals that while ORACLE Central is beautiful, there is nothing welcoming about it. It is stark, cold, and forbidding. Watchmen, another arm of the multi-tentacle organization, their uniforms red with silver piping, guard the front steps as if their intent is to keep people out.

  “What are we doing here?” Ash asks, suddenly worried.

  T.J. shrugs. “Thought you ought to see it before making up your mind about what to say to your uncle. You just need to be sure before you decide if you want to go in there.” He chuckles. “Relax. You’re not committed to anything yet.”

  He leads the way across the broad avenue and down a block to a gaming parlor crowded with players hunched over computer screens and control consoles. T.J. takes him right past all of them, not stopping until they are at the rear of the establishment, where a cluster of public vidviews housed in booths line the wall.

  “Use one of these,” he says. “Remember what I said. No mention of Street Freaks. No talk of the Zone. Here, this is the vidview code you need—it accesses the main communications center. Start there. Wait!” He grabs Ash’s arm. “Mute your vid image. Take it all the way down so you’re just a shadow on their screen. No sense letting them see what you look like just yet.”

  Ash hesitates, looks at T.J. “Don’t worry, fish,” T.J. says in an effort to sound reassuring. “I’ll be waiting right outside the door.”

  Ash steps into the booth and slides the door shut behind him. He powers up the vidview, inserts the necessary credits, and enters the code. At the last second, he remembers to lower the resolution on his vidview screen to almost nothing. T.J. is right. He doesn’t want to give them a look at his altered appearance if this is a mistake.

  Only a few seconds pass before an image flashes to life on the screen, and a pinch-faced, bookish man with a bored expression appears.

  “ORACLE Central. How may I direct your call?”

  “Cyrus Collins, please,” Ash says.

  The receptionist shakes his head. “Commander Collins doesn’t accept direct calls without an appointment. I can put you in touch with his secretary if you care to leave a message.”

  “No. I want you to tell him it’s his nephew, Ash.”

  The man’s hesitates. “Ash Collins?”

  The way the man speaks his name is troubling. There is a hint of surprise and eagerness. Both would be natural reactions. But there is something else. A tension, an edginess. Ash almost hangs up, but at the last second decides to give it another minute. “Yes,” he says. “His nephew, Ash.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The screen goes dark. He waits for something more. Almost a minute passes before the man returns.

  “He’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. They’ll tell him as soon as he gets out. Is there a code line where he can reach you? Or a vidview contact?”

  Ash hesitates. “No,” he says. “I’ll call another time.”

  And he switches off the vidview.

  He stands looking at the blank screen and makes a decision. The call is just another way of putting things off. He shouldn’t need an appointment to see his uncle. He shouldn’t have to stop and consider if meeting him is all right. Not in light of his father’s death and his own disappearance. He is equivocating again, treading water when he should be swimming.

  Instead of standing around, he will do right now what he should have done in the first place.

  T.J. raps on the glass of the vidview door and gives him a questioning look. Ash opens the door and walks out.

  “They said my uncle is in a meeting. They seemed to recognize my name, but they put me off. I’m going over there, T.J. Walk right in and demand to see him.”

  T.J. gives him a look. “Makes me nervous, but this is your party.” Ash starts to walk past him, but T.J. grabs his shoulder. “Let’s not be too hasty, fish. You go in, if you want, see what you can find out. But then you call me and tell me you’re okay. Let me know how things are going. I’ll come in and get you if you need me to.”

  “Just walk right in and rescue me?”

  T.J. shrugs. “If it’s necessary, sure. What, you don’t think I can do it?”

  He claps Ash on the back and shoves him toward the door.

  - 14 -

  Ash departs the gaming parlor and crosses the street to Central. The imposing steel and glass structure looms over him as he looks up at it, and that alone threatens to crush his fragile self-confidence. But he pushes ahead, beginning the climb to its front doors. The climb feels endless. He tries to take some measure of comfort from knowing that he feels physically okay with the required effort, even given the unpleasant possibilities of what is already an overexposure to the elements and other people. But as if to counter this momentary surge of fresh confidence, he finds the level of his fear rising along with his ascent. Everything about ORACLE suggests limitless power. Even the name, spelled out across the front entryway, intimidates. The letters flash in slow, steady cadence, their scarlet bursts a warning to beware.

  He passes between the Watchmen bracketing the entryway, but neither gives him even a glance. He’s not worth the bother, he thinks, and he goes inside.

  Once there, he finds himself in an entry area filled with scanning machines through which everyone must pass. Standing atop a metal disc within a glass cylinder, Ash watches as a series of bands intended to reveal weapons circle about him, examining him for weapons and explosives, noting every detail of his body and clothing on a viewable screen. When the scan is finished, he is required to provide his vidview number for identification. Ash goes pale, but it is too late to turn back. Unable to do anything else, he activates his chip and lets them take a reading. To his surprise, they show no interest. This must be the last place they expect him to surface. At least he has the element of surprise.

  When they are finished with him, he is directed to a pair of diffuse glass doors that open into the reception area. He now stands in a huge chamber with rows of polymer backbenches surrounding a reception desk. In cubicles off to one side, clerks and other functionaries are seated at desks. More black-and-scarlet Watchmen stand guard. Embedded ambient corelights blaze from walls and ceiling, casting their brilliant glow over everything. The polished steel and chromic surfaces glitter like diamond facets. A low buzz resonates, voices murmuring words too vague to identify.

  Ash walks to the reception desk and confronts one of several men and women who look either bored or overtaxed. The man he chooses is small and nondescript, his skin as pale as chalk, his eyes lowered. He is not a bot, but he might as well be, given his level of awareness. He looks up and immediately looks down again dismissively.

  It is not the man he talked to on the phone. But he could be a close relative.

  “Name,” the receptionist says in a perfunctory tone.

  “I don’t have an appointment,” Ash replies.

  The man doesn’t look up. “Who do you want to see?”

  “Cyrus Collins.”

  The man’s head lifts now. “Commander Collins doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. Do you want to make one?”

  “No, I don’t want to make one. I don’t need an appointment. I’m his nephew, Ash. He’s expecting me.”

  The man hesitates, uncertain. “I don’t have anything here that authorizes me to . . .”

  “Call him,” Ash says quietly. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t. My uncle is expecting me.”

  Apparently, the receptionist is quicker to react to threats than requests. Although he gives Ash a doubtful look, he triggers a fixed-station vidview below counter level and speaks to whomever is on the other end. “Is Commander Collins available? No? How long? When he gets out, tell him a boy is waiting to see him. Claims to be his nephew. No, I’m not kidding. That’s what he says.” He looks up at Ash. “What’s your name again?” Ash tells him. “Ash,” he says into the vidview.

  He signs off and looks up. “He’s in a meeting just now and can
’t be disturbed. They’ll tell him when he gets out. Go over there and wait for me to call you.”

  “No,” Ash says at once. “You call whoever you spoke to and tell him that if he doesn’t find a way to get my uncle out of his meeting right now, I am going to walk out of here.”

  The receptionist stares at him. “You can’t tell me what to do. How do I even know you are who you claim to be?”

  “You don’t. But you’ll be a lot happier in the long run if you just do what I say. Call back upstairs and tell them what I just said. Or better yet, don’t. Just send me up, and I’ll tell them myself.”

  “No one—and I mean no one—is allowed above this floor without permission. I can’t give you that permission.”

  “So make the call.” Ash leans on the counter. “Look, I took a big risk coming here. My uncle is going to want to see me, I can promise you. But I am quickly losing faith in that happening. If I can’t get in to see him, I’m wasting my time. So you call up there and tell them to get him out of his meeting, and you do it right now!”

  The level of his voice has risen, and some of the other receptionists are glancing over with looks of concern. Soon, there will be Watchmen coming to find out what is happening. Ash can feel his opportunity to get to his uncle slipping away.

  The man he is threatening grins. It is not pleasant. “You know what?” he says. “I’ll make that call. Anything to get rid of you.”

  He engages the vidview. “The commander’s nephew says his time is valuable. He says the commander better see him right away if he wants to see him at all. He says you better get the commander out of his meeting. He’s pretty insistent about leaving if he doesn’t get his way.” He listens, glances at Ash, and smiles unpleasantly as he ends the communication.

  “You better hope you’re right about this,” he says. “Now be a good little boy and take a seat.”

  Ash has pushed things as far as he can without getting thrown out, so he turns, walks over to the rows of benches, and sits down. He has barely settled himself in place when the glass doors from the entryway open and a black-clad member of Achilles Pod walks through.