by Ted Weber
“Thanks again for feeding my cat while I was locked up.”
Latisha relaxed. “Weren’t no thing. Couldn’t see one of God’s creatures go and starve.”
Kiyoko smiled. “M-pat’s a lucky man.” She turned back to him. “Can you get something tonight?”
“No, gimme a day to scout.”
“Send me a message when you’re ready, and where you want to meet. I’ll have a friend bring my stuff.”
M-pat started rolling through the possibilities in his head. “Whatever I get, I’ll bring it by Paulo’s first and get it painted. I’ll owe him.”
She shook her blue hair. “No need to owe him. You can have my immersion suit, and I’ll see what else.”
He nodded. He hoped he could find something on such short notice.
26
January 11
Cedarville State Forest, Maryland
Waylee
“We’re here,” Peter announced from the driver’s seat of the converted school bus.
Sitting in one of the upholstered seats behind him, Waylee wedged apart two of the slats blocking the adjacent window. Pel had insisted on closing all the blinds.
They were driving down a two-lane paved road past a dense expanse of trees. Cedarville State Forest, twenty miles north of the farm, back toward DC.
“Never seen so many trees,” Waylee said.
Across the bolted-down table from her, Shakti joined her at the window. “Pines, probably loblolly. The dormant trees are mostly oaks. The ones with the spiky balls are sweetgums.”
Thanks, nature girl. Waylee was more interested in what the hell they were going to do next.
Peter had borrowed the bus from a neighbor, saying he wanted to take it camping in northern Virginia. It needed new tires and an engine overhaul, and couldn’t get them to Canada. Even if Pel fixed it up, the owner wouldn’t allow it.
But it made a decent shelter. The owner had replaced the original benches with couches and chairs, tables, bunks, a bathroom, kitchen, and all the other necessities of home. And they’d packed it with camping gear and food before they left the farm.
They passed a pair of whitetail does browsing at the forest edge, something Waylee rarely saw in Baltimore. The deer snapped their heads up and stared at the bus, their ears and nostrils flared.
Shakti pressed her hands together, palms touching and fingers pointed upward. “Namaste.”
They pulled into a small parking lot and stopped. Waylee saw a peak-roofed visitor center through the windshield.
Peter looked back at her, Shakti, Pel, and Charles. “Okay, kids. After watching those arrogant bastards at the Smithsonian, I wanna help you however I can. First thing is to check in with the staff.”
“Why do we have to do that?” Waylee asked.
“Cause if we don’t, we’ll get evicted. Can’t hardly hide a school bus. Now the reason I suggested this place is first, it’s empty this time of year, but second, I used to volunteer here and know everyone who’s survived the yearly cutbacks.”
Pel leaned forward. “You’re not gonna say we’re in here, are you?”
Peter crossed his arms. “Son, I was born before your dad was even a sperm.” He pulled the door lever and stepped out.
Waylee turned to Pel. “I want to finish what we started.”
He nodded. “We can finish decrypting the comlinks and see what else we get.”
“I’d like to contact Ms. Baddelats. Maybe we can work together.”
He frowned. “We should be careful. We have to keep our location secret.”
“I know. I’m not stupid.”
Peter returned about fifteen minutes later, holding a map and some brochures. “Two weeks, off the books, no charge.”
“Thank you so much,” Shakti said.
He closed the door and passed out the brochures. “In case you’re interested, hiking trails, bird lists and whatnot. Woodpeckers are still around. Saw a red-bellied at the feeder.”
Shakti opened a window and took a deep breath. “I love the air.”
It smelled like pine, not the gasoline and old sock stench Waylee was used to in West Baltimore.
“We need electricity,” Pel said. “And Comnet access.” Peter had brought the computers Waylee and Charles had been using, although they couldn’t keep them.
“We’ll have an electric hookup,” Peter said. “You may be out of luck as far as the Comnet goes.”
Charles frowned. “Then why we here?”
“It’s just temporary,” Waylee said.
Peter returned to the driver’s seat and they continued down the road. He turned into an empty campground, gravel pads and picnic benches nestled amidst the trees, and pulled into one of the spots near the bath house. “Here we are. Home sweet home. For the time being.”
“How often do the rangers or whoever come by?” Pel asked.
“Not often, especially since the grounds are closed until spring. But you might want to stay out of sight weekdays between nine and five. Other than that, you’re fine.”
“I can put one of our cameras outside the campground entrance,” Pel said, “and have Big Red warn us if someone comes.”
Peter ran a cable to an electrical outlet, then untied a tent from the roof rack and tossed it down by the picnic table. Instead of setting it up, he came back inside. “Okay, here’s the plan. We hang in the bus ’til sunset, around five o’clock, then we can start getting dinner ready and whatnot. I’m sleeping outside tonight. No rain forecast.” He winked at Shakti. “You’re welcome to join me.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“It’s the middle of winter,” Waylee said. Even though year to year temperatures were climbing, it had still been pretty damn cold the past few nights.
Peter chuckled. “Goose down bags I got are rated to fifteen degrees. Ain’t forecast to get much below freezing. But you can stay on the bus. There’s four bunks in the back, and electric heaters.”
“If you’ve got an extra sleeping bag,” Shakti said, “I’ll sleep under the stars.”
Pel plugged in Big Red and the other two computers. “I’m gonna finish processing that comlink data. Waylee, how far are you on the video?”
“I need your comlink treasure.”
Shakti caught her eyes. “Let’s go for a walk. There’s something primeval about forests that brings life to your soul.” She had the trail map in one hand.
Pel stared at her. “That’s not staying out of sight. Besides, we have work to do.”
He waved Peter over. Waylee edged closer.
“We had to ditch our comlinks,” Pel told him. “Can we borrow yours? I was thinking I’d convert it to a wireless hotspot, and our computers could access the Comnet through it. You’d still be able to use it.”
“Sure.” Peter pulled his comlink, a new Samsung, out of his jacket pocket. He looked at the display. “No signal.”
Pel held out his hand. “Can I see it?”
He passed the comlink over and Pel fiddled with the screen. “Wi-Fi piggybacking’s out of the question,” he said. “We’re surrounded by forest. Looks like 4G LTE’s our best bet—there’s a tower just out of range. Slower than 5G but better than nothing.”
“At least a thousand times slower than fiber,” Charles said behind them.
Pel turned in his direction. “Yeah, well, that’s not an option at the moment.” He trudged back to the closet, just forward of the bunks, and pulled open the twin doors. He plucked wire hangers off the bar and dropped the clothes on the closet floor.
Peter hurried back there. “Hey, hey, that’s my stuff.”
“Sorry.”
“What are you doing?”
Pel counted up the hangers in his hand. “This should be enough. I assume you’ve got clippers somewhere. Need the metal for a Yagi antenna.”
“And what’s a Yagi antenna?”
“Directional antenna so we can boost the gain of your comlink and get a decent signal. I’ll need PVC pipe or something for the boom…”
; “I don’ t know about PVC,” Peter said, “but we’ve got tent poles, awning poles…”
Pel nodded. “And we can use a tree as the mast. The leaves are off. I assume there’s a toolbox on board.”
“This bus is a work in progress, so yeah. Boxes of parts too.”
Pel flashed a thumbs up. “I’ve got everything else in my duffel bag—solder gun, multimeter, connectors… I’ll have to start with a 2-element, which will give us five dB gain—they’re real easy to build. Once we get a minimal signal, I can download instructions to add more elements, if we need them.”
Pel looked excited. He loved fiddling with tech, which was why their music had so many layers and why the band house was so tricked out with electronics.
She hoped he succeeded. They had no place to go, no way to get her video on the air, and at best, two weeks to figure something out. Ms. Baddelats might be their only hope.
27
January 12
Baltimore
Kiyoko
Kiyoko/Cat Girl’s horse trotted through the woodland, Charles/Touissant astride the horse to her right. His body was rigid as a statue, the price of a “ridiculously slow connection.”
“What did Waylee and Pel say about selling our house stuff and band equipment?” she asked.
Touissant swiveled his head. “Waylee was surprised you asked, said do what you need to. Wants to sell the whole house to fund her next steps, but Pel ain’t down.”
Kiyoko thought about her virtual realm. “Can MediaCorp or the government confiscate everything I have on BetterWorld? Or delete it?”
“They did it to me. They can do whatever they want.”
She examined her friend. Touissant wore a navy blue jacket with scarlet trim and gold epaulettes, white pants, black leather boots, and a sabre. Very Napoleonic, decidedly pre-steampunk.
“I need a matching persona. What did Haitian women wear during your General’s time?”
Touissant smiled. “We can look it up.”
They crossed a stream. Water rushed over rounded pebbles, drowning their horse clops with thousands of miniature echoes. “My life on the outside is ruined,” she said. “Now my life here could be ruined.”
“Back everything up so you can restore it. I’ll help.”
“I did that. I’m not totally useless. But if MediaCorp takes Yumekuni away and gives it to someone else, Prince Vostok for example, how can I get it back?”
“We’ll raise hell,” Touissant said. “You’ve got a lot of fans who wouldn’t put up with it.”
“You’re right.” Rather than continue, she halted her horse. Better get this over with. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day.”
Touissant halted beside her. “Yes? Damn this slow connection. Sorry.”
“You know I can’t date someone who’s underage.”
His face didn’t react. “Why not? Who cares what the government thinks?”
Good point. “And we’re very different.”
“Not really.”
“I do consider you a really good friend.”
His face drooped. “Welcome to Friendzone, population me.”
I hate that term! “Are you saying you don’t value me as a friend? Do you know what it’s like to get hit on all the time just ‘cause you’re pretty and people want to stick their… whatever in your… whatever?”
Touissant cringed. “I didn’t mean it that way. Talking to you is the only thing I ever have to look forward to.”
Her anger diminished. “We’re being cliché. I’ll see you soon and we can discuss it in person.”
From somewhere beyond the sky, she heard faint thumps, like an arrhythmic heart. She focused on the sound. A noise from outside. Someone pounding on her bedroom door.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Someone’s banging on my door.”
Kiyoko pulled off her immersion helmet. “Hold on!” She hadn’t showered or dressed yet - should have done that when she woke up.
Absinthe stood outside the door, hands on hips, a scowl on her face. She never went anywhere before noon, and must have spent the night. Absinthe’s expression softened into seductive. “Well, you look adorably edible in that nightie.” She stepped forward and settled a hand on Kiyoko’s left breast, index finger rubbing the nipple. “I almost forgot how nice those are.”
Kiyoko felt only the vaguest stirring. “Is that why you interrupted me? Still hopping from bed to bed?”
Absinthe snatched her hand back. “You’ve got feds downstairs, and they’re getting restless.”
Her heart stopped. Why had she wasted her morning in BetterWorld? Today was supposed to be her escape day, and now it was too late. “Tell… tell them I’m not decent and have to put some clothes on. Maybe you could make them tea or something?”
“You want me to play housemaid?”
“Just tell them I’ll be down soon.”
Kiyoko shut the door and relocked it. She should have left last night, even if her ride wasn’t ready. She peeked between the wooden slats of her window blind. A uniformed cop stood outside just below and locked eyes with her. She closed the slats and started picking through her wardrobe.
She stopped and went to her night stand and fished for her comlink. “Francis Jones,” she told it. Francis claimed to have a secure line, but according to Pel, there was no such thing where Homeland was concerned.
“Hello Kiyoko,” her lawyer answered.
“FBI’s here. At my house. Can you come?”
“Absolutely. Don’t say anything until I get there.”
“When will that be?”
“Let’s see… Half an hour?”
“Please hurry.” She terminated the connection and returned to her wardrobe.
Kiyoko settled on a red silk dress circled by an embroidered gold dragon, high heels, and a matching wig. Power, vitality, and luck. She threw them on and sat at her cramped makeup station.
Someone knocked on her door. “Kiyoko?” Voice of Harrison, the female FBI agent. “FBI. We need to speak with you.”
Kiyoko shouted at the closed door. “Just a minute. I’m putting clothes on.”
“You’ve got five minutes or you’re under arrest.”
That meant they weren’t here to arrest her. “I’m hurrying.”
The knocking resumed in exactly five minutes. Kiyoko breathed deeply, filled her lungs with power, and opened the door. “How are you, Ms. Harrison?”
The agent’s eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t you have just put on a T-shirt and jeans?”
“I don’t own T-shirts or jeans.”
Agent Harrison gestured for Kiyoko to follow her downstairs. The other bedroom doors were ajar.
In the living room, Agent Recelito stood next to Waylee’s recliner, sipping coffee. Kiyoko’s temporary roommates and the friends who’d stayed the night sat in the chairs and sofa.
“Well, if it isn’t Princess Kiyoko,” Agent Recelito said. “We have a schedule to keep, you know.”
“Your friends here have been filling us in as best they can,” Agent Harrison said.
What?
“Unfortunately,” Agent Recelito said, “they don’t know anything useful about your sister and her boyfriend.”
“They say you’re not involved in politics like the fugitives,” Agent Harrison said.
“I vote,” Kiyoko said, “but that’s about it.”
Agent Harrison nodded. “And you’ve followed the judge’s orders about not leaving the city.”
Agent Recelito handed her a sheet of paper. “This is for you.”
Kiyoko scanned it. An itemized bill for $123,811.44. “This is a joke, right?”
“That’s what you owe the government for destroying those monitoring devices.”
Kiyoko folded the bill in half and handed it to Absinthe. “My assistant will take care of it.”
Absinthe scowled.
Agent Harrison glanced at the comlink strapped to the back of her wrist. “Okay, everyone, clear out. Everyon
e but Ms. Pingyang.”
Her friends looked relieved. Some went upstairs. Most exited the front door. Kiyoko sat on the sofa. Where was Francis? It had been more than half an hour.
The FBI agents pulled up chairs across from her. Agent Recelito spoke. “Why don’t we try doing this the easy way.”
“Doing what?”
“Where’s your sister?”
“Long gone. Beyond your reach. Next question?”
Recelito’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Where’d they go?” Agent Harrison asked.
Kiyoko leaned back against the cushions. “I decline to answer any more questions.”
Agent Harrison sighed. “I don’t understand why you’re willing to go to prison for a sister who could care less about you.”
Kiyoko didn’t respond to her trick.
“She abandoned you. You’re going to prison while she’s sitting on a beach somewhere drinking mai tais and laughing. Is that fair?”
Waylee on a beach. There’s the laugh. “What’s a mai tai?”
The door opened. Francis Jones. Her champion. Late but not too late.
“This interview is over,” he said.
The agents stood. Agent Recelito stared at Kiyoko. “You want to play that game? Your sister and her comrades are designated terrorists. That means your case is now federal, with a mandatory prison term. We know you helped shelter them and hide their activities from the authorities. We know you helped finance their operations with BetterWorld credits. We have everything we need to put you away.”
Kiyoko’s knees shook as they left.
* * *
Cedarville State Forest
Charles
Kiyoko was right. He had duped everyone about owning the MediaCorp news feed, even if he didn’t mean to, and it was on him to make things right. He had to redeem himself. And even if Kiyoko friendzoned him, so what? Kiyoko, Pel, Waylee, and the rest were his brothers and sisters now. A Collective within the Collective.
4G was off the scale slow, but he was stuck with it. Sitting in his narrow bunk with his interface unit and popup screen, he looked up disgruntld1, the Collectivista in MediaCorp who’d helped him what seemed a century ago.
