Broken Mirror

by Cody Sisco

  “Now who’s being paranoid?” Ozie asked. “It was probably interference from the egg. Brains like ours aren’t paragons of stability anyway.” The glossy white ceramic nobs on his brainhacking cap glowed, reflecting the multicolored lights of the café. “You’ve never been in a Class One facility, right?”

  “I haven’t, no,” Victor said. “They’re in the vidfeeds though.”

  “Don’t trust those. I haven’t been to one either. How about a rancho?”

  “Only the one my granfa set up in Carmichael, not the rest of them.”

  “Jefferson courted disaster with the crazy idea that we could be rehabilitated. The rancho in Carmichael alone was enough to make him a target. And then when he moved Samuel Miller to the Class One facility there . . .” Ozie adjusted a control on the side of his cap, saying, “We don’t really know what happens to the Class Ones. Did you know that the number of times someone has been upgraded from a Class One to a Class Two is exactly zero?”

  “Of course. It’s a degenerative disease.”

  Ozie perched on the edge of the booth seat. “Is it? Does it happen to everyone? How bad does it get? How quickly?”

  “I don’t know about any of that,” Victor admitted.

  “Exactly my point,” Ozie said. “After Carmichael, everything happened so fast. Suddenly there’s a new neurological condition and a genetic test for it, but no one can access the data. Something’s going on with the Commission and the SeCa Health Board, and your family’s company is involved. They were the only ones doing any research. Why did Jefferson stop it? We need to find out, and to do that we need to understand the gene. That’s why I asked you to steal from BioScan.”

  “How will understanding the gene help?” Victor asked.

  “It’ll help me dig through the Health Board’s files, the research they conducted on Samuel Miller, whatever they’ve got. And I want to publish the gene sequence.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “So people can study it. Victor, this is what Jefferson wanted. We’ll figure out who killed him, I swear. But that’s not enough. He’s gone, and we’re still here. We have to live in this world, as bad as it gets, as much as we wish it were different, and we have a responsibility to honor his wishes.”

  Victor leaned forward. “If I help you, promise me you’ll crack open the data egg.”

  Ozie nodded.

  “Okay,” Victor said.

  Ozie touched one of the knobs on his cap, breathed deep, and smiled at Victor. “Excellent. We can get started tomorrow. Be patient. You realize once we start down this path, we’re painting targets on our backs.”

  Victor snorted. “Too late for that.”

  “Stick with me, Vic, and I guarantee we’ll find the answer.” Ozie pointed to the Bose-Drive. “Keep that safe. And don’t tell your friend about any of this. She’s hiding something from you. I can tell.” Ozie stood and walked into the bustle of Springboard Café.

  If Elena was hiding something, Victor was pretty sure he knew what it was. She hadn’t given up stims after all. He crammed the Bose-Drive in his bag and stood to find her.

  Chapter 25

  Economic progress depends upon the cooperation of labor and capital, according to rules set by rational and inclusive government. And, of course, the ingenuity and passion of individuals must be harnessed to feed the economy’s growth.

  Where in this delicate symbiosis is there room for mechanical automatons?

  We say no to the replacement of labor by unfeeling machines. We say no to the disruption of markets by unthinking intelligence. We say no to the candidates who would put the interests of robotic corporations ahead of people.

  We say yes to humanity.

  —United Californians Against Automation (1971)

  Organized Western States

  6 March 1991

  After Ozie left, Victor stood up and, immediately, the robot wearing a top hat returned and extended a towel for Victor to wipe his hands.

  “Would you like your cake to go, sir?”

  Clever thing—it asked because he was standing. SeCa was missing out on these.

  “Yes,” Victor said.

  “You shall find it at the host stand momentarily. Please authorize payment.”

  The amount appeared on a vidscreen on one of the robot’s forearms. Victor took out his MeshBit, pointed, and squeezed. The receipt was sent to his feed.

  “It has been a pleasure to serve you. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Eastmore,” it said, then rolled away.

  Victor realized he’d just left a trace for his pursuers to follow, if they were any good at hacking.

  He raised the MeshBit to his mouth. “Call Ozie,” he said.

  A moment later, Ozie’s voice spoke from the device’s tinny sonofeed, “I just left. What do you want?”

  “I paid for the meal under my own name. Is there any way you can wipe the record?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Springboard Café is totally secure. I do their systems. That’s why I’m a VIP. Relax. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Victor wondered what other privileges a VIP at the Springboard Café was entitled to. A free sandwich? Unlimited beer? Whatever the perks were, they couldn’t make up for living at the Springboard Café, such an ephemeral and artificial place. A strong gust of wind could blow it away. But at least they had robots here and no damn Classification Commission—not yet anyway.

  He searched for Elena in the lounge, hunting through dim candle-lit recesses, ignoring curious glowing eyes staring back at him. Velvet cushions lined a bench along the wall, and alcoves held poster beds draped in gauze where couples and throuples reclined. Cocktails ornamented the tables, held in every shape of glass imaginable: tumblers, flutes, mason jars, and cubes. Hip, social, and at ease—it was the type of scene he’d never feel at home in.

  Elena wasn’t there. He decided to check the bathrooms. On his way down a narrow hallway, he passed retro music posters for space rock bands from the 1950s: the Planetoids, Twisted Funburst, and the Boob-Head Dickies.

  Beyond shredded-tire-tread curtains, the small restroom reeked of so much bleach that Victor’s stomach climbed his ribs. A single stall flashed a red occupied symbol. Next to a hole in the wall where the urinal should have been, a handwritten sign read, “Water conservation at work.”

  He noticed another smell, too, an unfamiliar bitter tang.

  He waited, trying to breathe as little as possible. Shuffling and whispers came from the stall.

  “Elena?” he asked. The whispering stopped, but the shuffling continued, and he heard trilling, feminine laughter. Victor banged on the door. “Elena, are you in there?”

  The lock on the stall door clicked, and the light turned green. The door swung open, and the tallest woman Victor had ever seen emerged.

  Two bloodshot eyes floated inside thick maroon eyeliner, and a triangular beard pointed toward pale half-moon breasts hoisted by a sequined and feathered corset. Glittering midnight-blue platform shoes clicked on the concrete floor as the creature approached Victor.

  A deep molasses voice emerged from her silver-lipped mouth, “You really ought not to interrupt. Sebastian, get out here.”

  A thin, gangling, and awkward boy stepped out of the stall. He wore only a pair of small lime-green shorts made of furry fabric. His protruding ribs tented the skin of his small chest. Looking at his face, Victor saw he had been wrong: not a boy, Sebastian was around his own age, but the complete lack of fat and musculature made him look very young. His eyes, crisscrossed with bloody capillaries, sat deep within bruised eyelids, signs of an acute stimsmoke addiction.

  “Tell me what you see, Sebastian,” the woman said.

  Sebastian slinked a few steps forward and fixed a shattered stare on Victor. In a voice like a rake being dragged over asphalt, Sebastian said, “Mmmm . . . Can’t. Too much noise in the signal.”

  Victor moved to step around the freaky couple, but the tall one shifted to block his way and leaned closer. “We were h
aving a lovely encounter,” she said, taking the boy’s hand and cupping it to her breast. Sebastian nuzzled her side. “I was teaching him the most wonderful things. You could learn too.”

  Her teeth reflected the bright neon lightstrip encircling the bathroom’s ceiling. She easily outmassed Victor three to one, not counting the waif. Though he wasn’t looking for a fight, he also didn’t want to be pushed around by a pervy couple in a public restroom.

  Victor said, “Toilets are for people who need to go, not for whatever you were doing together.”

  The tall woman ran her fingernails through a frizzy fringe of hair. “You don’t instruct Theodora Tamarindo how to use a bathroom.”

  “Biiirddeeeee!” Sebastian’s long-wailed vowels echoed in the tiled bathroom.

  “Victor?” Elena’s voice called from outside. “Are you in there?”

  Theodora chuckled.

  Elena stepped into the room and stopped short, gaping. “Uhhh, Victor?”

  “Your name is Victor?” Sebastian asked. The young man gripped Victor’s shoulders. “That’s not a bird name.”

  “I’m not a bird,” Victor said, shaking off the other’s hands, “obviously.”

  “Either you both get pleasant real fast, or you get out faster,” Theodora threatened.

  Victor didn’t understand. It felt like urine was leaking into his bloodstream and flooding his brain. He should take another dose of his herbs. “Fine, we’ll be friendly,” Victor said. “I do have to go to the toilet.”

  Elena said, “No, Victor, that’s not what friendly means. Friendly means sharing—Never mind. Let’s go. Now, Victor!” She pushed through the rubber curtain.

  Theodora smiled and straightened to an unnatural height. “Guard yourself, sweet cheeks. There’s plenty worse out there than us, and, with that face, you’re just begging to be violated.” She winked and put her arm around Sebastian.

  Victor joined Elena in the hallway, and they hurried outside together. His bladder had reached a painfully pressurized state.

  He left Elena behind and went to the edge of the parking lot, unbuttoning his pants and peeing as soon as his dick bounced out. It felt like an electrical current. He looked up. Thousands of stars filled the sky, and pulses of drums and other sounds echoed across the dusky lot, background music to the thrilling sensation of relief.

  From closer than expected, Elena asked incredulously, “Are you hard?”

  “Go away! What are you doing?” He hunched over to hide himself.

  “Did you get off on those two?”

  “It’s my bladder’s fault.” The herbaceous smell of Victor’s urine faded. A different, fetid odor floated through the air, probably from the café’s water recycling plant. He zipped up and wiped his hands on his pant legs.

  His explanation evaporated in the desert air, and Elena remained silent. Maybe she thought it wasn’t worth worrying about, or maybe it was something else. He might have seen her face flush while she watched him zip up. She had touched him a few times today. Nudges and hugs. Maybe she wanted more.

  Almost as if she read his thoughts, she took Victor’s hand, and they walked to the lodge next door, remembering halfway that they needed their bags. They crunched through the gravel parking lot and retrieved their bags from the lockers. By the time they entered the lodge room, his vision flickered from exhaustion.

  The room contained two twin beds, a chair and desk, and a vidscreen and MeshLine—a nice perk of staying in a brainhacker lodge. A shower stall, toilet, and sink were crammed in an adjoining bathroom.

  Elena sent him to shower with such conviction that he didn’t protest.

  When Victor was done, he cataloged his possessions while Elena showered. The data egg, his MeshBit, the herb book, his dreambook, one sachet of fumewort and one of bitter grass, a half liter of alcohol, two liters of distilled water, twenty empty vials and corks, three shirts, one jacket, three pairs of pants, ten pairs each of socks and underwear, and one pair of shoes.

  Elena emerged from the shower with a puff of steam that carried the scent of musk and berries. She wore a white towel, the top of which clung to her chest and the bottom barely covering her rump. Victor watched her dry her hair with a second towel. Her clean, moist skin glistened, and pressure began to return to his groin. He jumped up and shoved his belongings back in his bag.

  Elena asked, “What did you find out from Ozie? Did he ask you for money?”

  Victor rubbed his eyes. He felt like he’d had more questions than answers. “It’s a long story. We can talk in the morning.”

  She dried her arms and chewed her lip. Then she disappeared into the bathroom.

  Victor stripped off a bedspread and crawled under the sheet and blanket. A few minutes later she returned, cut the lights, and lay down on the other bed.

  After an hour of tossing and turning, trying every exercise he could to calm his mind and empty it of thoughts, he fell asleep. He dreamed of eggs cracking open and releasing dragons who razed the far-flung cities of the O.W.S. with their fiery breath.

  When Victor woke up, it was after eight o’clock, and he had sweated through the sheets. He dressed and spent most of the morning making tinctures.

  Around noon, he walked to Springboard Café. Elena claimed to have a headache, so he left her in the room, glad for the break from her nervous twitching. He smiled to himself—he was keeping his anxiety at bay more skillfully than she was.

  He found a booth and ordered food. A half hour later Elena joined him.

  Ozie found them and eased himself into their booth. He jerked his head toward Elena. “What have you told her?”

  “Nothing,” Victor said.

  Elena brushed her hair back. “It’s true. I barely got a word out of him.”

  “Good,” Ozie said. “We can’t be too careful. Take this.” He slid a silver device toward Victor. It was the size of two hands side by side.

  “What is it?” Victor asked.

  “A MobileMesh unit, new standard model, with some of my own modifications to make it untraceable. I call it the Handy 1000. Most of these are limited to the common command interface, but I’ve done a little creative reorganization. This one also connects to the dark grid. I’ve got one too. We’ll use them to communicate. Don’t lose it. Also, you need to smash your MeshBit. Or I can neuter it for you.”

  Victor handed Ozie his MeshBit and picked up the Handy 1000. He yelped when it folded itself into a spiraling cylindrical tube.

  Ozie laughed. “You didn’t break it. That’s how I usually carry it around in my pocket. Be careful though. People will think you’re walking around with a huge erection.”

  Elena rolled her eyes. “We should be making plans. What are you going to do with the tongue, for instance? We shouldn’t just sit here, playing with gadgets.”

  They both ignored her. Ozie said, “You can put it around your wrist, too, but don’t do that in public. This isn’t Oakland & Bayshore. A lot of people here would kill for one of those.”

  Victor found a square icon that caused the Handy 1000 to unroll itself into a sheet. He pressed it again and the flexible glass curled itself up.

  “Neat,” he said.

  He unfolded it again and studied the screen. He saw several unfamiliar icons in addition to the standard set. He pressed one that looked like nine squares arranged in a grid, and a map appeared showing the area where SeCa met the O.W.S. A green dot pulsed where the Springboard Café was. There were also blue marks like upside-down V’s arranged in a hexagonal pattern that blanketed the entire map. He pressed his finger against one of the icons, and another screen of information swam up:

  MT_OWS_904567.10

  39.459033, -119.780910

  64kbps, 34% adl

  firmware update: Semaphore-38

  Victor stared at the statistics, puzzling them out, fascinated by his first glimpse into the Mesh’s innards. The V’s must be MeshTowers, and the first line must be the identifier for the one he’d selected. The second line showed its geo
graphic coordinates. The last two might be bandwidth and operating system. He assumed “adl” stood for “average daily load.”

  None of this information was usually available to users. Ozie had somehow hacked the Mesh.

  There was another icon labeled “Log.” Victor pressed it, and a long page scrolled by. He found a time-stamped command for a MeshID “handshake,” a code passed back and forth between devices to set up a secure communications link. Each handshake passed through dozens of MeshTowers, some more than one hundred kilometers away, if he was calculating longitude and latitude correctly. Dozens of handshakes filled the log. The device created a new false MeshID every few seconds and randomly rerouted requests and data through nearby MeshTowers in order to mask its location and activity—a genius technique.

  Although it contained the same core functions as any Mesh interfacing device—messaging, data retrieval, and scheduling—the extra features rendered it much more powerful and secure.

  Victor felt an elbow in his side and looked up. Elena was staring at him. “Earth to Victor,” she said. “Your friend here has been rocking in his chair like a nutcase, watching you—”

  “Hey!” Ozie said. “I object to that term.”

  Ozie glared at her, then turned his attention to Victor. “I think I’ve solved the processing problem. On the Mesh processing happens in linked clusters of devices. The clusters are called nodes. Las Vegas is a node. The Bayshore is a node. There are thousands of nodes all over Europe, connected by the low-orbiters and in some cases by physical cables. In the American Union the links are mostly low-bandwidth MeshTowers, so I can’t send much traffic through them. But if I move the satellites . . .”

  A sudden fear gripped Victor. He pictured a thousand satellites crashing down and incinerating him at ground zero. “You’ve got to be kidding.”