by Sam A. Patel
In a way, I think that’s why he and I get along so well. Our backgrounds couldn’t be more different, but the one thing we do have in common is our independence. He and I both had to learn early on how to take care of ourselves. Another thing we have in common is our ambition. When the Drakes finally made it out, it wasn’t just the settlements Dexter left behind, it was everything that went along with it, including all those facts of life he once had to live by. Like guns.
Dexter points the gun away and inserts the empty magazine, pulls back on the slide until it locks open, inserts one bullet directly into the chamber, and eases the slide forward. “Last chance to come to your senses,” he says.
There really isn’t a soft spot to catch my fall, but that doesn’t matter anyway. According to the instructions, I should let the bullet throw me off my feet and land on my torso. The way it’s been designed, the ultramesh is supposed to disperse the energy of the bullet throughout the armor. The harder I hit the ground, the more energy is dispersed throughout the gear. Basically, the way the instructions read, if I do have to take a bullet, I should go with its trajectory and let the body armor do its job. To that end, I rock backwards onto my heels.
“Do it.”
With his finger well off the trigger, Dexter palms his grip-hand and raises the gun to my chest. Even in his oversized hands it looks large. This is when I begin to wonder if I really am crazy.
I flinch as Dexter pulls the trigger, but nothing happens. He tries again. Still nothing. Dexter thumbs the safety and points the gun to the side. Pulls back the slide about halfway and releases it. Returns it to my chest. Flips the safety off.
“What hap—”
The blinding flash strikes my chest so hard it throws me off my feet with a thunderous bang that I don’t even hear until I am already sailing backward through the air. Much further than I ever would have imagined. I land hard on my back. The next thing I see is through tears. Dexter hovering over me.
“Jack! Jack! Don’t move. Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I gasp.
What does it feel like to get shot? Lying flat on my back, it feels like a 7-foot muscle man has just wielded a 10-pound sledgehammer over his head and brought it straight down onto my chest. Even though I’ve done exactly what I was supposed to do, I can feel the impact of the slug like a dent in my endoskeleton.
Dexter hovering over me, “Jack, say something.”
“You were right, Dex. This was a stupid idea.”
But I have to get up. Out in the field I won’t have the luxury of catching my breath. I roll to my side and push myself back onto my feet—barely. Between me wobbling back and forth and the room rocking side to side, I’m amazed I can even remain upright, but I do. My entire body is sore, even my legs, and my chest feels like it has just been punched in, and there is one rib in particular that feels cracked.
I remove my sweater. Underneath it all, I am amazed at how small the bullet looks compared to how it feels. It’s just this tiny little thing caught in the mesh. Dexter rifles through his bag and comes out with a pair of pliers. He grabs the slug and twists it out of the mesh, leaving behind a tiny dent in the weave. I hold out my hand and Dexter drops it into my palm. Such a tiny little thing.
“What was my down time?” I ask when I finally catch my breath.
“I don’t know. Less than a minute.”
“That’s from the shock.” I unbuckle the armor and reach inside to my rib. The bruise is so big that my fingertips run into it by accident.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” I wince. “Yeah, I am. I think next time I should be able to roll out of it.”
Dexter’s expression is something between shock and amazement.
“You’ve never been shot at while carrying a load?” I ask.
Dexter shrugs. “My loads aren’t high value. I don’t get paid as much, but I don’t get shot at either. Anyway, I’m more concerned about that guy with the samurai sword who’s running around the sneakernet cutting off people’s arms.”
“Katana,” I correct. Just as I regain my balance I feel a tingle in my arm. I’m not even sure what it is at first. Until I suddenly realize, the chip inside has started to vibrate.
8
I’m not sure what to expect when I show up at the address given to me by my cortex chip, but the one thing I don’t expect is that it will be such a dump. It isn’t even a high-rise, just a crummy 12-floor walkup that smells old.
The suite is one large room in which people sit at long tables sectioned into workstations. There is nothing dividing one workstation from the next, so everyone can see and hear everyone else. The only private office is located in the back corner. Figuring that’s where I’m supposed to go, I start down the narrow aisle between the last row of workstations and the wall, but before I get there a hand reaches out and pulls me to the floor. Normally it wouldn’t have, but my legs are still weak from the bullet. Not to mention the bruise on my chest the size of a softball.
I try to get up but a second hand grips my shoulder and shoves me back down.
I glance up. Sitting above me are two guys in white shirts who look identical except for their chins and ties. One makes a shushing motion with his fingers. “Arcadian?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer, wondering if any of this is normal.
“Good,” says the other. “We’ve been expecting you.”
He motions for me to stay down as he does something at his desk that I can’t see. A moment later he lowers his hand to pass me a SQUID sensor, and I wonder again if any of this is normal. I pull up my sleeve, exhale hot breath onto the contact and stick it over the crow’s eye. For some reason, this is when it hits me that I am actually doing this. I am a data runner.
The data stream enters my chip in magnetic pulses that feel like the ball end of a sewing pin tapping Morse code into my arm. It has no discernable mass of course, but it’s almost as if I can feel its weight loading into me. This goes on for about thirty seconds while the two guys above me act as if I’m not even there. Then comes a two second pause followed by a quick series of five rapid pulses, then nothing at all as the light on the sensor goes out. The same guy who handed it to me reaches down with a scrap of paper. Scribbled on it is an address. I try to take it but the guy won’t let go. I try again but his fingers hold tight. I guess I’m supposed to memorize it. I do, then fold the SQUID into the paper and let him retract both.
The other one warns me to stay down. “I’ll tell you when it’s clear.”
I take a moment to admire the bird on my forearm before pulling down my sleeve. It really is a beautiful image. I have to be sure to give Snake my compliments when I see him again, if I ever see him again.
“There is a brown envelope taped under the desk,” he says. “Grab it.”
I see it immediately, a small padded envelope. I peel it off. The rip of tape is louder than either man is comfortable with; both look around the room nervously.
“What am I carrying?” I ask.
Now they eye each other. “We were told there would be no questions,” says the man with the address.
“That we could rely on it,” says the other. “We were told there would be discretion.”
“Alright,” I say. “So what do I do with the envelope?”
“That’s your red herring.”
Red herring? I wonder.
“It’s your ticket out of here,” says the other. “Security will stop you on the way out. They will search you. When they find that envelope on you, they will take it. You should make a fuss over it, but let them have it. Then deliver the real package.”
I slide my backpack off my shoulder and stuff the envelope inside. “Anything else?”
Neither guy answers. Neither guy says anything until, all of a sudden, “Go now!”
I crouch-walk along the wall to the beginning of the row before popping back to full height. If anyone else notices me, they pretend not to. I
nearly turn around and look back at the two guys but manage to check myself. I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing they would want. Moving toward the door, I keep looking for the security they mentioned, but I don’t see it anywhere. For a moment I think I might avoid it altogether, until I exit the suite and find him waiting for me outside. Not that big, as security guys go. He’d probably be about Dexter’s size if not for all the artificial growth hormones.
“Stop right there!” He rips the backpack off my shoulder and pulls it open with far more zeal than necessary. I’ve hidden the envelope in the hydration compartment to make it look like I’m trying to sneak it through, but it doesn’t take him long to find it. He removes the envelope and drops the bag.
Seriously, would it have been that difficult for him to just hand it back to me?
He turns the padded envelope over in his hands. “This is a secure work environment. All shipments in and out are processed through Consolidated.”
Consolidated, or what used to be the Postal Service. Nothing is secure in their hands. They’re a huge part of the reason we have a sneakernet to begin with. Trust me, it isn’t the Consolidated salary that’s put so many postal carriers in luxury vehicles and vacation properties.
“Look, I’ve got a job to do,” I say and make an attempt for the envelope.
“All shipments are processed through Consolidated,” he repeats. “Your services are not required here!”
He whips it away and widens his eyes like we’re about to have a problem. We aren’t about to have a problem. I think I’ve played the part convincingly enough. I throw up my hands. “Okay, fine. But if you don’t want me showing up then you should tell your people not to call. I don’t have time for this crap.” As soon as I say it I realize I might have pushed it too far. The last thing I want is for him to start grilling me about which employee handed me the envelope. “Whatever, man. I’ve got another job downtown.”
I move to pass. He stops me. I step back and stare at him. Neither of us blink. I should be plotting my lane past him, but somehow I know it’s not the right move. He has the envelope. I have no reason to run. Running now would only arouse suspicion. So I don’t. Finally he lets me go. I move past him and down the stairwell.
Behind me, I hear him take the envelope back into the suite. This is of no concern to me. I make my way out the building and head for the nearest subway station. I have real cargo to deliver.
9
According to the monitor, the next train is only three minutes away. I check my watch and lean over the platform to scan the tunnel. There is a very sharp bend coming into the station so I won’t see the train’s headlamp until the last second. I look around.
Standing there with my backpack over my shoulder, I look like any other upscale student on his way to a Free City charter school. And now that I’ve introduced a dollop of hair gel into my mane, I blend into the Free City crowd even more than I did when I was an actual member of it. It throws me at first. Every time I catch sight of myself in a reflective surface it’s like I’m looking at a much more stylized version of myself. Dare I say, a cooler me? It reminds me at once of all those rich kids who would return to school each fall glistening with Mediterranean tans, sporting styles so new they haven’t even made the fashion magazines yet.
Passing a few girls on the platform, I catch a few looks that might even convince me I am one of them, if not for that damn itch on my arm. Well, not an itch exactly—just an acute awareness of the chip in my flesh loaded with data. I try not to favor my arm in any way, try to remain calm, nonchalant, but it’s hard. It’s hard because I know it’s there, and now I have this uncontrollable urge to clutch it. I know it’s all in my head, that the data itself is just a bunch of zeros and ones that has no tangible feeling whatsoever, but in my mind it’s like I can feel its pulse in that spot on my forearm. It’s like that phantom limb thing, only in reverse.
A glint of light appears on the tunnel wall.
By now I have strolled to the end of the platform so I can see everything at a glance. I look around as casually as I can. Mostly it’s men and women in business suits with a handful of students mixed in.
I check my watch. Observe my surroundings. Wait.
The splash of light on the tunnel wall grows stronger by the second until the train finally comes barreling into the station.
The doors open to let passengers off, and I find myself scanning them as well, wondering if this is what Snake meant when he told me to be hypervigilant. I hope it is because at that moment I’m not sure what else I can do. I step aboard the train. There are plenty of seats but I figure it’s probably better to stay on my feet. The doors chime and close behind me. The train lurches forward. I grab a strap and hang on. Because I was standing at the end of the platform, I am now riding in the last car of the train. I figure this is smart because the end cars usually have the fewest riders. Fewer people means fewer people to keep my eye on.
The train picks up speed. And soon the fast dolly of the empty platform through the window of the subway car abruptly wipes to darkness, leaving only my reflection in the interior glass.
A girl my age wearing comm shades stares despondently into her music.
A girl in a black hoodie sits with her arms folded and her head down.
Two men in business suits chat.
A cute redhead wearing a crested blazer over a tartan skirt operates her thin screen. She’s the one I linger on. Her legs have minor scrapes here and there that are probably from field hockey or some other extracurricular sport. I can’t make out which school her crest belongs to, but it is definitely one of the Free City charter schools.
A few others.
This is how it is for the next few minutes, me minding all of them as they mind themselves, frozen in their daily commutes. I begin to wonder if maybe I’m taking the whole thing a bit too seriously. I take a breath and let my shoulders relax. Body armor. Hypervigilance. It’s all well and good but I’m on a moving train now. What could possibly happen?
As if on cue, the sliding door to the forward car gets thrown open so hard it actually rebounds closed and has to be opened again.
The Japanese man who enters has a large curl of hair not unlike a surfing wave covering the top-right quadrant of his face. He is slender and wears a very expensive suit under an equally fine overcoat. Behind him enters a big round blob of a man who only takes shape after he squeezes through the door. This one has a shaved head and thin goatee and wears an electric-blue tracksuit with white stripes running down the arms and legs. I see the trouble in his eyes the moment he enters.
Neither one looks at me. For a moment it seems as if they will pass right by me. Maybe they have business with someone else on the train, the two guys in suits perhaps, or maybe they just want to be at the back of the train. Who knows, who cares? Just so long as it doesn’t involve me. But that all goes out the window the moment the big one turns to face me, effectively trapping me in the tiny nook between the seat and the door. The suited one grips my wrist with surprising strength for a man his size and forces two layers of sleeve up my arm. Smiles.
“Well, well, well, Gendo. Miru what we have here.”
The guy obviously speaks English, but for some reason he addresses me in Japanese. “Ave-u desu ka?”
He’s just playing with me. It might have worked too, if I hadn’t studied a year of Japanese back at the magnet academy. I nod. Am I an Ave? Yes, I’m an Ave. He’s already seen the tag. There’s no point denying it now. “So,” I answer
“So ka?” he sings. “Nihongo o hanashimasu ka?”
To the question ‘you speak Japanese?’ I responded in the affirmative. “Chyoto,” I add. A little.
“Subarashii!” he says in a way that can only be sarcastic. “That is wonderful. You Aves are getting smarter with every new flock.”
I am in trouble. There is no question about it. I am in deep, deep trouble. I can’t even scan the train for options because
the big one is blocking my view.
“That is Gendo,” he says, referring to the mountain standing before me, “and you may call me Mr. Ito.”
“I’m not carrying anything,” I blurt. The moment the words leave my mouth I realize how desperate it sounds.
“No?” Mr. Ito shakes his head mockingly like an adult toying with a child. “Okay, then. I guess Ito and Gendo leave you alone.”
Everyone else has either exited the car or is standing by the far doors waiting to get off at the next station. They don’t know what’s going down, and they don’t want to know. They just want to be off the train. I just want to be off the train.
Mr. Ito throws open his coat.
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes!”
Strapped to the inside of his coat is a katana.
Mr. Ito twirls it around the back of his hand and raises it to his downturned eyes. Slowly he pulls the steel from its sheath. Meticulously. Keeping a perfect line as he stares me down over the edge of the blade.
“What the hell is that for?” I press my back to the door, as if I don’t already know.
Mr. Ito smiles. It is a gangster’s smile, offered strictly for his own amusement. “This,” he catches my reflection in the blade, “this is not for making ice cream.” He pauses for drama like a bad actor. “Not I scream,” he finishes, “this is for making you scream.”
My mind starts racing. Best-case scenario—I come out of this a cripple.
Gendo grabs hold of my arm and pulls me off my feet. The next thing I know, I am on the floor of the train turning my body into his hold. The more he twists, the more I turn. I have to. It’s the only way to keep him from breaking my arm. But even getting my arm broken would be preferable to what Mr. Ito has in store for me, as Gendo extends it for him. Mr. Ito rotates the blade in his hand.
