by Sam A. Patel
Just let it all burn.
Is it a code? A passphrase? Something to say to the people at the receiving end so they know I’m legit, like in those old Cold War spy movies? And on that note, how am I even supposed to find those people at the receiving end?
He said get this to the Outliers. The Outliers. That rebel faction located deep inside the squatter settlements. Freedom fighters or terrorists depending upon whom you listened to. Was I really supposed to deliver it to them? Such a run would contradict what Cyril told me when I first started. So far all of my runs have been point-to-point within the Free City, just like Cyril said they would be. Now all of a sudden I’m being directed out to the squatter settlements. Something just isn’t sitting right. I’m not even confident that this is the load I was meant to pick up. The logical thing to do would be to contact Arcadian for guidance, find out directly from them just what the hell is going on. The only thing is, Red Tail told me not to trust anyone at Arcadian but her and Snake. This creates the dilemma. Not knowing what is in my arm, where to go to get it out, or whom I can trust.
My ears perk.
From somewhere in the distance, it’s hard to say how far with the tunnel echo but I’m guessing maybe a quarter of a mile, I hear the whine of an engine. Dirt bike, I think. But then I hear the engine rev under the throttle and realize the pitch is too low. ATV. I’m 500 feet downwind of a switching track, so the noise could be coming from either tunnel. Or it could be coming from the adjacent track just beyond the connecting tunnel. Whenever Dex and I meet on the sneakernet, we always choose a hub with multiple ways in and out, just in case. But even if I can’t pinpoint exactly where the ATV is coming from, I do know one thing for sure. It’s heading straight for—
Dex.
With the echo of the ATV behind him, I don’t even hear him coming until he’s already out of the tunnel and leaping over the switching track with a package under his arm. Not a data package loaded into his arm, though I’m sure he’s got one of those as well, I’m talking about an actual package that he’s carrying under his arm. Like a shipping tube but more oddly shaped. Something wrapped in brown paper, maybe. It’s too dark to see anything but shapes as he slows to a belabored step that includes a slight limp. Until he gets closer, steps into the tunnel light. And I nearly jump back in fright.
Dexter is covered in blood. Dark red smears his clothes and face. The package under his arm is no shipping tube, it’s an arm. Not his own. Someone else’s. Someone else’s arm. Someone else’s dismembered arm. Dexter is running through the tunnels with another data runner’s arm.
“Dex, what the hell?”
“We got ambushed.”
“You’re bleeding!”
“It’s not mine.” Dexter swings the dismembered arm out from under his own. The raw end is wrapped with a dirty cloth but still continues to seep blood.
“What happened?”
“It’s the cargo.”
“What cargo?”
“The cargo, Jack. The one Ito and Gendo have been contracted to intercept. This is it.”
“What?!?”
“I knew I should have walked away the minute I heard the details. There wasn’t even a destination. The instructions were to keep the cargo readily accessible for the next twenty-four hours. Within that time, someone would make contact to arrange the handoff. Some blind alley transfer. Damn, Jack, my gut was telling me to walk away, but then the other two runners got half their pay up front. And when I saw the completion bonus they were offering…the money was just too good. I couldn’t turn it down.”
“Slow down, Dex. Start from the beginning.”
“It was a parity run. Three runners from three different firms. Three separate loads with three separate handoffs. Mirrored.”
“So any two loads can make a complete package. Okay, so what happened?”
“We weren’t even supposed to see each other after the download, but we ran straight into each other at Grand Central.”
“You went down through Grand Central?” You never go down through Grand Central. Too many people, too many unknowns. An interceptor could track you all the way into the tunnels without you ever knowing it. Dexter knows that. Hell, he was the one who told me.
“I had no choice. I spotted a shadow the instant I left the pickup. I had to get off the street quick. You know how many relay cameras there are around the station. I had to assume they already picked me up and were tracking me step by step. The only thing I could do was enter the station and make a break for the tunnels.”
Grand Central being the midtown hub, there isn’t another station for eight blocks in any direction. Dexter is right. If he picked up a shadow and the cameras were on him, it was reason enough to break protocol. Chances are I would have done the same thing. “Then what?”
“The other two must have had the same idea, because the next thing I knew, we all ran into each other on the same platform, and the only way out was on the train. That was when all hell broke loose.”
“Mr. Ito?”
“Not at first. At first it was just Gendo. Man, he threw that kid against the doors and ripped off his arm like he was separating a piece of chicken. Then he threw it on the floor and stomped it until there was nothing left of the chip inside. The other runner and I ran through to the back of the train, but that was where Ito was waiting with his sword. And before that kid could even react, his arm sailed clear across the car and landed at my feet.”
“So you grabbed it.”
Dex nods. “I wasn’t going to mess around with no samurai sword,” he says in spite of his mixed martial arts training. “I kicked out the window and tossed out the arm, then jumped out after it.”
That explains the limp.
The sound of the ATV grows louder, and the way Dexter throws his attention over his shoulder, I know it’s for him. “This is it, Jack. This is the stolen cargo they’ve been contracted to disrupt.”
I know it’s a long shot but… “Do you have any idea what it is or who gave it to you?”
“No.”
“Well we can’t get caught with it, that’s for sure.”
Dexter takes a moment to consider the situation. “I shouldn’t even have it on me. The whole point of parity is to distribute the cargo so no single runner can be intercepted. But right now I’m carrying the entire load. I need to…” Dex looks at me. “We need to secure the cargo.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know exactly what he’s thinking. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s the only thing we can do. Get that cargo secure and head back to Brentwood.”
“Then what?”
“Meet me in the old library tonight. We can figure it out then.”
I take another look at the dismembered limb. The sad thing is, he’s right. I can’t think of a better alternative. “Dex, I can’t exactly walk around the Free City with a severed arm over my shoulder.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Oh, no.”
The roar of the ATV is much closer now, like it could pop out of the tunnel at any moment. “I’ll draw him away,” says Dexter. “Once you’re clear, you can remove the chip.”
“You want me to cut into his arm?”
“There is no his, Jack. It doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. Just think of it as a random arm.”
Random arm? Is there even such a thing? Not that it matters, there is no time to argue. Dex hands me the cold, limp arm made tacky from drying blood. It isn’t particularly heavy, less than ten pounds in total, but the weight is awkwardly distributed. No matter how you hold it, it always wants to turn in your hands. At first I put the severed end behind me, but seeing that ghostlike hand hovering in front of me by the amber glow of the tunnel light is way more creepy than blood, so I turn it around.
“You ready?” Dex asks as he steps back to the middle of the tunnel.
“Yeah,” I reply, and position myself into a little niche just beyond the light. I don�
��t think anyone passing by could see me in there, but Dexter smashes the light just to be on the safe side. Now we are in total darkness, for a moment, until the ATV emerges and the beam of a xenon headlamp cuts straight through it. It is Gendo who’s riding it. From my little hiding space I watch the ATV leave the ground, sail over the switching track, land with a thud. And soon the light grows bright on Dexter.
“Hey, Jack,” he says just before he takes off.
“Yeah.”
“Run like hell!”
The Other Cargo
16
Twenty seconds after Dexter takes off up the track, Gendo roars past on his ATV. It’s not much of a lead, but for someone like Dex it’s enough. Hopefully. I have to stop myself from thinking about it, or the limp in his leg. I have to trust that Dexter will be all right so I can focus on my own run.
As soon as the ATV disappears up the track, I take off down the connecting tunnel, a tight passage that could barely fit Gendo himself, let alone his quad. But I don’t take it all the way to the adjacent track. Not yet. There’s something I have to do first. Halfway through the tunnel I stop at a rusted old power cabinet. Not quite a workbench but it’ll have to do. I place the severed arm on top and dig my folding knife from out of my backpack. Flip it open.
“Ugh. This is going to be gross.”
I push the tip of the knife into the cold, rubbery flesh. A single rivulet of blood flows down the side of the arm. It’s noticeably more viscous than fresh blood, spilling in thick curtains as I cut a full circle all the way around the chip scar. These runners don’t have a precisely implanted bioidentical cortex chip like I do; theirs are just a silicon module wedged under the skin for safekeeping. That’s why most data runners, Dexter included, have those ridged scars on their forearms that look like cancelled postage stamps.
I peel away the patch of skin and see the module embedded in sinewy muscle fiber. It takes a bit more cutting to get at it. The muscle tissue is tough and slippery and keeps sliding under the blade of the knife. I reach in with my fingers and pull it taut, but still it requires me to saw through, and even then it stretches before it frays, and frays before it snaps.
Ugh! If I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up, I could definitely scratch Coroner off the list.
I can’t help cringing as I pull apart the strings of wet tendon to access the module, but after careful maneuvering I am able to pull it free. I hold it up to the tunnel light and examine the sticky red memory chips. Whatever is in this module is the reason why dozens of runners have lost their arms over the past few months. I grab an antistatic bag from my backpack and drop the module into it, fold it over and place it in a padded compartment.
The whole ordeal of removing this data runner’s implant has been so traumatic, it almost makes me forget about the other cargo I’m carrying around, the one I never got a chance to tell Dexter about. It’s only the pang in my stomach that reminds me of it.
Just let it all burn.
Whatever. That’s not the priority right now. First I have to get this other cargo secure, and the only way to do that is to get it out of the tunnels and out of my hands. And before I can do that, I have a distance to run. And before I can do that, I first have to get halfway there. That’s the point of Zeno’s Paradox, isn’t it? Whatever your goal, you’re never more than halfway there. Right now I have to run through the underground to the other side of the Free City, but first I have to get halfway there.
And the remainder of the severed arm?
I leave it behind for the rats.
The north entrance of Riverfront Park, otherwise known as Riverfront Square, has as many relay cameras as any major public locale in the Free City. But between the subway entrance, the park entrance, and the never-ending traffic jam resulting from two avenues converging and two streets crossing all in the space of a single intersection, there is a bottleneck of pedestrian traffic that makes those cameras pretty much useless.
And then there’s the Riverfront Café, located right on the corner of Busy and Busier. Between all the people grabbing carryout for the park and the swarm of people hovering around waiting for a table to open up, the three cameras located inside the establishment are just for overview. Anyone tapping into the feed wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of spotting a face in that crowd, especially one taking measures not to be seen.
I keep my head down on my way to the restroom and lock the door behind me. The sink has a metered faucet, which means I would have to scan my TerraAqua card for an uninterrupted stream. I don’t do that. After taking such pains to remain hidden, scanning my TerraAqua card would be like sending up a red flag telling everyone where I am. So instead I painstakingly wash my hands under 3-second bursts of water at 60-second intervals. At that rate it takes me three minutes just to get the soap working, but in that next minute I scrub and scrub like there’s no degree of too clean. And for a moment, I know exactly how Lady Macbeth must have felt.
A pound at the door.
My hands now clean of the other data runner’s blood, I pull out my thin screen and enter the following base 16 string: 52:65:64:20:54:61:69:6c. I’ve had Red Tail’s digits on my mind for some time now, I’ve just been waiting for a reason to use them. This is after all the sneakernet. You don’t pull someone off a run just to say hi!
I place the SQUID interface over the carrion crow’s eye and upload the hail into my cortex chip. So far, so good. It’s only when I go to scan it into the aggrenet that I run into a problem. The scanner in the restroom is wedged between the sink and the wall in such a way that I can’t squeeze my arm under it. I try all different angles even though I already know it’s not going to work. Scanning a card for water, no problem. Scanning a chip embedded in an arm, not going to happen. I needed another scanner.
Another pound at the door.
Ten minutes gone by, I exit the restroom to a line of extremely annoyed people. Particularly the first one, who takes a deep breath like he thinks the entire room is going to stink.
Back in the café, I get in line with a sandwich and drink that’s going to cost me way more than I’d like to spend at the moment. Maybe one day soon I can budget a small portion of my earnings for minor luxuries like a $20 sandwich or a $30 movie, but today it’s just an unforeseen expense.
I get to the register and the attractive young girl rings me up.
“Excuse me, what kind of bread is that?” I ask.
The instant she turns around, I pull up my sleeve and run my tag under the scanner attached to the register. The bird’s eye blips as the scanner picks up the cortex chip and instantly returns an error code. I retrieve my arm just as she turns around. She eyes me with curiosity, then the register. “That’s weird,” she says as she hits the clear button. Then, to answer my question, “that’s a honey brioche. I can have them make your sandwich on it if you prefer. It should just be about five or ten minutes.”
“Sure, why not.”
Then she notices the tattoo on my arm. “Nice ink,” she says.
“Thanks.”
She takes a closer look, observing the purple sheen in the raven crow’s plumage and the way it always seems to have one eye on her. “Wow, that’s really fantastic coloring.”
“It’s scorpion ink.”
“Really? Where’d you get it?”
“It was custom job.” I authorize the food purchase on my thin screen. “The guy’s not around anymore.”
“Oh,” she replies with a hint of disappointment. “That’s too bad. I’m looking for something really different. Everything around here is just so…blah. You know?”
“I guess, yeah.”
She smiles. I return it awkwardly as the receipt with my order number appears on my thin screen. There’s a tiny round table wedged into the corner that nobody seems to want because it’s barely big enough for a couple of beverages. I take it and wait for my food.
17
I’ve already
finished my sandwich and drink, and a blueberry muffin, and half a cappuccino on top of that when the girl with raven hair and azure eyes enters the café and heads straight for me. I notice at once that she’s not darting her eyes in every direction like I sometimes do. She does it with much more subtlety, using her peripheral vision instead. That’s definitely her experience at work. There’s no question she’s been at this a lot longer than I have.
She comes to my table and drops her shoulder bag onto the floor beside my backpack. “What’s the story, J-Bird?”
“Where to begin…”
Red Tail lifts the plate full of muffin crumbs and empty sugar packets and observes the plate of sandwich crumbs beneath it.
“Do you want anything?”
She just looks at me. Blinks. “You’re loaded up.”
I nod.
“You’re walking around the Free City with cargo in your wing?”
Again, I nod.
“Are you insane?”
“We’re data runners,” I remind her as I open up my backpack and remove the antistatic bag. “Insanity kind of goes with the job.” I hand it to her.
She stares at it. It’s pretty clear she knows exactly what the crusty brown smears are inside the bag, even if it doesn’t faze her. “This is a Mammoth Mark II bio-implantable memory module…” She turns it over and examines the etch pattern on the logic board. “Revision 6.”
I am amazed that she knows the exact make and model of the memory module by sight. I didn’t even know that.
“Where did you get this?” she asks.
“It’s one load in a two-to-three parity cargo. My friend Dexter is currently running the only other arm. They got intercepted by Ito and Gendo, who crushed one load on the spot. Dexter got away with his load and this one still intact.”
