* * *
The new platform afforded good views of the other towers and their windmills. There was her tower, Tower One, the oldest and most decrepit with grimy capsule windows jutting out at pixel intervals, and Tower Two, all glass bubbles and greenery piled like a stack of river rocks, and Tower Three, made of biocrete and healing polymers, Tower Four, gleaming black with solar paint, and Tower Five, so far out on the ocean that it was easy to forget it was even there. It had been designed by algorithm, and its louvers shifted constantly, like a bird fluffing its feathers up against the cold. Occasionally this meant getting a sudden blinding flash of glare when the train zipped past it, or when a water taxi approached its base. Hwa’s old Municipal History teacher said the designers referred to the towers by their respective inspirations: Metabolist, Viridian, Synth, Bentham, and Emergent. There was an extra credit test question on it, once. Mr. Ballard wrote her a nice note with a smiley face in the margin when she got it right. Now she couldn’t seem to get rid of that little factoid.
She watched Rusty and Nail milling through the crowd. Rusty kept shading his eyes. Nail stood stoically, eyes narrowed to the sun, seemingly unperturbed. He’d remembered to turn his eyes on, apparently.
From the sky, she heard the guttural churn of a chopper homing in on the platform. It bore the Lynch logo. As one, the crowd surged closer to the stage. Rusty and Nail must have moved with them, because she saw no sign of them at the edges of the crowd.
Then the explosions started.
They began as a high whistle. Then a bang. Firecrackers, maybe. Acid green smoke rose above the crowd. Some people fell to the ground. Others ran. Someone ran past Hwa and knocked her down. She rolled over into a crouch and called out: “Rusty!”
Maybe Rusty and Nail had fallen down, too. She couldn’t see through the rush of legs and green smoke. The smoke itself was thickening, spreading, moving as if by design. A group of people stood under the centre of the cloud, moving their hands like old people doing tai chi, shaping the smoke. It wasn’t smoke at all, then. Nano-mist. Hwa zipped the collar of her jacket over her mouth. In the shadow cast by the mist, Hwa saw the pulsing glow of a mandala tattoo.
The kids from the platform. They had done this. From her crouching position, Hwa saw them deploy a swarm of flies that projected words against the mist: TAKE BACK YOUR TOWN. LYNCH THE LYNCHES.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hwa muttered. “Talk about low-hanging fruit. Rusty! Rusty, can you hear me?”
She stood up. Maybe they had run away. She hoped they had run away. Far away. Already, she heard sirens. NAPS saucers buzzed low across the sky. What was she going to tell Séverine? She had to find them. She needed higher ground. Through the veil of green fog, she caught a glimpse of the caution-yellow stairways she knew led up toward the refinery.
She ran.
She ran as though she were running away, far to the edge of the crowd, keeping her head down, ducking behind a waste bin as the first wave of NAPS officers in riot gear washed across the platform. After they passed, she made for the gate to the staircase. It was locked with only a rusting sign and a corroded chain. She kicked it open and started climbing.
From the first tier of the catwalks, she saw only the fog. It was rising, now, and she pushed on and up another tier. From that second tier, she saw the fringes of crowd. NAPS kettling the crowd. People already squid-tied to each other. She looked for Rusty’s hair next to Nail’s tall body. Nothing. She kept running.
On the stairs to the third tier, she saw the man with the rifle.
He paced the refinery catwalks high above the fray. As Hwa watched, he paused and began examining the rifle. Hefting it in his hands. Peering down the scope. The gun was illegal on the platform; since the fall of the Old Rig there were laws against projectiles and explosives and all the other things that could cause a pillar of fire to vaporize a crew of roughnecks like tobacco leaves. Not that that mattered, in this long and terrible moment. What mattered was that he could shoot into the crowd. What mattered was her promise to protect two men in that crowd.
The chopper was louder, now. Closer. Who was he with? The riot cops? The protesters? Was he going to shoot the Lynches, or was he going to shoot into the crowd? Maybe he’d had his eyes done. Probably. He would be sharper than she was. Faster. The only thing she had going for her was the ability to surprise him.
She felt the air whumping on her sternum as the chopper hovered, seemingly unwilling to land. It was hard to swallow. From behind a girder, she watched as the man rested his rifle on the railing. His eyes remained on the chopper. He snapped open a shoulder rest on the rifle. She gauged the length of the catwalk. She had fifteen feet by three, with a four-foot clearance on the railing. All her kicks would have to be three- and four-pointers aimed at the head. Steel grate, no purchase for her feet. The man was six feet tall or just under it. She would have to jump to make up the difference.
Well, that was one way of surprising him.
When he reached into his pocket, she rushed him. He must have felt or heard her feet clanging across the steel, because he looked up: blue eyes, ginger hair, deep lines, mouth open. He gripped the rifle and swung it toward her; it was the opening she needed. She batted the business end of the weapon and pushed it down and away, then turned around as though to run. Her navel met her spine, her right knee met her chest, and her left foot pivoted to rise. Her body became a pendulum. Her eyes met his just before her heel crunched into his nose: he looked oddly hurt, as though he were confused at this sudden imposition of violence, at the rudeness of it. And then he was really and truly hurt, and bleeding everywhere.
“Fuck!”
Hwa grabbed for the gun. He wouldn’t let it go. Well-trained; he didn’t grab for his broken nose. Blind and bleeding, he gripped the gun crosswise with both hands and shoved it at her face. She had to bounce backward. His head jerked; he was listening for her feet on the steel. Hwa yanked the gun toward herself anyway. He refused to let go.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said through the blood.
“You won’t,” Hwa said, and ducked under the gun to plant her right leg behind his left and throw her weight at his thighs. He tumbled backward and then she was on him, locking her ankles behind his waist and squeezing her thighs together hard. She heard the air leave him in a rush.
“Jesus,” he hissed.
“Give up.” She stared hard into his eyes and slowly curled the gun up to her. His shoulders rose with it. Her arms were trembling, but so were his. They shook and rattled together over the gun. She breathed through her teeth. “Let go.”
His hands fell away. Suddenly she was a million pounds lighter. Her body snapped up, towered over him, the gun absurdly huge and awkward against her chest. Hwa watched his gaze flick over her shoulder. She turned. Above them, against the hazy blue of the sky, was a thin silver disc. A flying saucer. As she watched, a single laser painted her skin.
Beneath her, the man shouted: “No, wait, stop, don’t—”
Then the pain started.
2
Broken Arm
The holding cell was unlike any Hwa had ever seen. It was a small room. Hwa had a hard time estimating just how small, because the edges of it had a tricky way of blurring away just at the periphery of her vision. Tower Five, then. Five had all the bells and whistles. At least, it had most of the programmable matter in Newfoundland and Labrador. Lynch, then. Not the NAPS. They were wasting no time taking control of things.
Carefully, Hwa stood up. Both her ankles and hands were gelled together. She knelt down and then sat. The floor beneath her was oddly warm, like skin. It moulded up around her the longer she stayed in place. Raising her legs parallel to her chest, she rocked back and forth until she could fall back on her shoulder blades with her legs and core straight up in the air. Slowly, she slid her legs through the loop of her bound arms. Now, at least, they were in front of her. Where she could use them.
A seam opened in the wall. It was the man from the platfor
m. And he was carrying a big knife.
“Back for more?” Hwa asked.
“What? Oh.” He looked down at the knife. It looked so incongruous in his hand. He’d cleaned up and changed into a blue Lynch polo shirt and cargo khakis. The knife trembled a little in his right hand, until he gripped it more tightly. “Hold your hands out, please.”
Hwa held them out. He cut the bonds in one quick motion. Experienced, then. He knelt at her feet. Looked up at her for a moment cautiously. He was afraid she would kick him again, she realized. She stood straighter and looked away. He cut the ties, and flicked the knife back into its handle and put the whole thing in a back pocket as he rose.
“Sorry about that. How are you feeling?”
Her mouth worked. It was painfully dry. This had to be some sort of game. It certainly didn’t feel real. He was being too nice. Then she remembered her script: “My name is Go Jung-hwa and I want to speak to my union representative. Séverine Japrisot, USWC 314. I won’t answer any questions until she sends an attorney for me. Also I want to see a doctor. I have a seizure disorder. It can be triggered by things like pain lasers or whatever the fuck was on that saucer.”
“But…” His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly, like he was reading up on the keywords in their conversation. “The saucer should have picked up your stimplant, or your subscription—”
“I don’t have a stimplant. Or any subscriptions. At all. I take drugs, not machines. That’s what my plan covers.” She gestured at herself. “All of this is completely organic.”
“Organic?” His gaze refocused sharply on her. “Completely?”
“Are you asking about my IUD or my diet?”
To her satisfaction, he went red to the roots of his hair. Apparently that much of him was still organic, too. “Neither,” he muttered. He held his hand out. “Daniel Síofra. I’m with Lynch.”
Hwa nodded pointedly at the logo on his shirt. “No shit?”
He snorted. “And I’m not pressing any charges.”
His hand was still out. She flexed her fingers before shaking it. He had a good handshake. Right-handed. Long-fingered. Skin too smooth for the strength she knew was there. She watched his eyes and his smile widen as she intensified her grip.
“You just don’t quit, do you?” he murmured.
She relaxed her grip and slid her hand away. They had already been talking too long. “Am I free to go?”
“Aren’t you going to apologize for breaking my nose?”
Now he was just being ridiculous. Hwa squinted. His nose was straight. His eyes were clear, no puddles of purple beneath. “Your nose looks fine. You had it reset. And drained. Or…” She watched his eyes. He was not staring at her skin. He was not watching the left side of her face, or trying hard to avoid looking at it. Filters, then. Like the bald girl on the platform. Hwa wondered where she was, now. She decided she didn’t want to know. “You have programmable tissues.”
He blinked. “Something like that.”
Augmented people were so uptight about their augmentations. As though everyone around them actually gave a damn. As though learning about what they’d fixed could really tell you anything about the places they were broken.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
“Kick you? With my feet.”
“Surprised me. I didn’t even see you coming.” He tilted his head. Tapped his temple. “For some reason your face doesn’t show up on the camera. It’s just a blur.”
It’s because my face is a natural dazzle pattern, Hwa thought of saying. But she didn’t. Let him keep whatever vision of her face his eyes were feeding him. Let the cataract of data growing over his vision blind him completely.
“Oh, sorry. No wonder you don’t feel like talking.” From another pocket, he produced a flask. “You did so much screaming, your throat must be raw.”
Hwa took the flask. She opened it up and sniffed.
“It’s just water,” he said. “I promise.”
Hwa sipped. Seemingly just water. And it did feel nice on her throat. “Screaming?”
“The pain ray. You just went rigid, and…” He swallowed. “I didn’t want them to. So you know. I don’t like those things.”
“But you’re cool with pointing rifles at crowds of people.”
He sighed. “It wasn’t a rifle. It was a long-range microphone. The company doesn’t have access to all the networks in the city, yet. So I was using the scope to pinpoint the sources of the conversations I was listening to. You probably didn’t notice, what with all the karate—”
“Tae kwon do.”
“Tae kwon do?”
“Karate is Japanese. I’m Korean. Half Korean.”
His brows rose. “And clearly very proud of it.”
“I’ll learn karate when the Empress apologizes for the comfort women.” She folded her arms. “Anyway. Guns are bullshit.”
“It was a ricochet that set off the chain reaction that blew up the Old Rig, wasn’t it?”
Hwa nodded.
“You knew someone in the blast?”
Hwa levelled her gaze with his. Made sure he could see her eyes, if not her true face. That was the nice thing about anger. It could burn away any hint of embarrassment. “It’s a small town, Mr. Síofra. Everybody knew somebody.”
She tipped the flask high before he could say anything, but left some water sloshing at the bottom. He gestured for her to finish it. He was back to being the version of himself he’d introduced himself as. “You’re the escorts’ escort?”
Hwa swallowed and shook her head. “Just one of them. There are more.”
“Is it a good job?”
“There’s a pension. Flexible hours. Nice people.”
“Nice people who won’t cover a machine subscription that could improve your quality of life.”
“It’ll come up next bargaining session. I talked to my rep about it.” Hwa tried not to sound defensive. It wasn’t like it was any of his business, anyway. He was just trotting out the usual multinational rhetoric about how much better he had it as a corporate drone.
“Would you ever consider leaving? For a job with Lynch? I work in our Urban Tactics department.”
“The fuck’s that?”
“I change the moods of cities.”
Hwa gave him the look she gave clients who refused to pay overtime.
“It’s applying a design thinking sensibility to urban engineering, on a day-to-day basis. Changing light levels in a building so its inhabitants sleep more easily. Raising the tempo of music in the refinery to increase production.” He gestured as he spoke, and Hwa immediately understood that this was part of his work, that he orchestrated cities like a symphony conductor. “I have a certain knack for it. A sensitivity. Or so I’m told.”
Hwa looked at the dead gel ties on the floor. She toed one of them and flipped it up into her waiting hands. She twisted its length in her fingers. It twitched back to life like bait on the end of a hook. “You start every job interview in handcuffs? Because if you’re hurting for talent, that might be why.”
“You have skills we need,” he said, seemingly undeterred. “You got the jump on me. Literally. That’s not easy to do. It hasn’t happened in years. Also literally.”
Hwa grinned. “There’s plenty of muscle in this town. You don’t need mine.”
“I don’t need it. I want it.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “And I’m willing to pay for it. Handsomely.”
The laughter bubbled up out of Hwa before she could stop it. Maybe it was the pain ray, still playing with her nerves. Handsomely. Jesus wept. Men always sounded the same, when they tried to buy women.
“I’m sorry.” She got herself together. “It’s a very kind offer. But the answer’s no. I like me own job just fine.”
He opened his mouth to answer. Then his head jerked to one side. He scowled, and then nodded. “Mm. Mm-hmm. I’ll let her know.” He refocused on Hwa. “Someone’s come to collect you. She says she’s your mother.”
* * *
Sunny stood in the halo of green light cast by an EXIT sign. She wore a sleeveless red dress and a black scarf of smart silk that adjusted itself over her blond tease-out as she turned her head this way and that. For those that had the eyes to see it, Sunny’s profile would be popping up along with her contact info and relevant testimonials. Stuff like how she still knew all the steps from all her old routines, how she still spoke perfect Korean in perfect baby talk, how she’d call you “big brother” and punch you in the arm when you teased her just the littlest bit, how her blow jobs made you see stars. Hwa knew. Sunny made her do a spell-check on the whole profile, once, back when she was still in school.
Behind her, Síofra pulled up short. “That’s your mother?”
Of course, he could see Sunny’s profile, too. Hwa felt only the tiniest tingle of embarrassment. Not because of Sunny’s job. Nothing to be ashamed of, there. She kept more money fucking than she ever had singing or dancing. But the profile itself, the old songs, the duck lips, the overwhelming pink tide of cuteness currently washing across Síofra’s vision: that was fucking embarrassing.
“That’s her.”
Síofra said nothing. He was staring at Hwa, now. Making the comparison, probably. Between her wasp-waisted mother with the delicate limbs and perfect skin and the titless wonder in the black running tights and rash guard. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see everything else: the empty space around her, the lack of outputs and lack of profile, the lack of connections and lack of status.
Sunny spoke in cheerful Korean with a radiant smile: <
“I have to go.” Hwa passed Síofra his flask. “Thanks for the water.”
Síofra nodded. “It’s no trouble.” He sized up Sunny and looked back at Hwa. “Is she taking you to your doctor? To check you over?”
Company Town Page 2
