by Sam A. Patel
“That choice is Grumwell Liberty, or what we like to call the Fortress. No longer will the North American Alliance be forced to subcontract the management of our most prized asset—our own security. Today, by unanimous vote of the Senate Subcommittee on Alliance Security, Grumwell Liberty has agreed to an unprecedented unilateral initiative to be the sole defenders of the North American Alliance. We will be the standing army that this great coalition so greatly deserves. As of today, there are no mercenaries. No guns for hire. As of today, the North American Alliance is the Fortress, and the Fortress is the North American Alliance. Witness today the largest nation-state in the world and the largest private enterprise in the world coming together as never before—intertwined like a double helix to form the DNA of a brand new global power structure. Witness today the birth of the Grumwell-Alliance Fortress.”
Cheers. In every streamlet, even all around us, people cheer.
“My god, they’re taking over the whole thing,” I say.
“Now you see,” replies Snake.
“There is one more thing,” says Sandrine, who once again hears us through all the commotion with her combat-grade earpieces.
“There is just one more thing I would like to say,” continues Tolan as if on cue. “There is one person who deserves a great deal of recognition for bringing Blackburn and TerraAqua to justice. He’s not one of our people here at Grumwell nor was he an inside man at Blackburn or TerraAqua. He’s a young data runner by the name of Jack Nill. And through his efforts, even putting his own life in jeopardy to do it, young Mr. Nill was able to deliver the evidence that brought these actions to light. Jack, wherever you are, the Alliance owes you a debt of gratitude.”
It is a very strange thing to see yourself in cinema-sized dimensions, but that is exactly what happens when my Brentwood High yearbook picture fills the air above the vortex choppers, looming overhead like the mug shot of some fugitive on the lam. The only thing I can’t figure out is what the hell he’s talking about. I was carrying the evidence, yes, but it wasn’t me who delivered it. “I don’t get it,” I say. “I appreciate the credit, but he must know I had nothing to do with it.”
I see at once that Snake doesn’t share my sentiment. Just the opposite. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“What?”
“It’s not a favor,” says Snake. “You’ve just been burned. The one thing you absolutely need in order to be a data runner is anonymity. That was the most valuable asset you had, and he’s just taken it away from you. Fame is like kryptonite to a data runner. You can’t run cargo when everybody knows your face.”
I look up at the screen, at my face, at the grim smile on Tolan’s, and for the first time I know what it is to walk in Martin Baxter’s shoes. I know what it is to have the CEO of Grumwell sitting across from you playing the other side of the board. Miles Tolan. My opponent. The man who moves the pieces against me.
Sandrine kills the projection as the rest of Blackburn’s soldiers are marched away. Most of them will probably be folded into Grumwell Liberty; but I’m sure a few of them, the loyalists, will be dealt with differently.
“Monsieur Nill,” she says. “Please inform Monsieur Baxter that Miles’s offer to him still stands. There is nothing that has transpired here today that will be held against him if he chooses to come to us now.” She goes to leave, but before she does, turns back to me. “This goes for both of you,” she adds.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I whisper.
“It means that Martin Baxter isn’t the only one Tolan is after,” Snake answers.
Sandrine restrains a smile. “À tout à l’heure, mon chéri.”
Never More Than Halfway There
37
One week later, Cass and I sit on the rusted merry-go-round in the run-down old playground of Brentwood. Or I should say, Burntwood. Barely a week gone by and the nickname given to Brentwood by the media has already stuck, even among the people living here.
We had a service for Pace early that morning, which is why I’m still wearing my black suit. Dexter was there too, but he had to leave in a hurry. Our town may have been burned but the rest of the world kept on. Still plenty of data needing transport, still plenty of loads to be run. Not that my wing had buzzed once since Tolan’s press conference, but if there was an official dismissal from Arcadian, I was still waiting to get it.
Cass looks around the playground. “So I guess this is one of the few places that didn’t get touched by the fire.”
“Only because there was never any water here to begin with. The kids always had to bring their own.”
“I heard there’ll be some money coming in from the settlement. Maybe even enough to rebuild the town.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think so?”
I shrug. “Money doesn’t make a community, it breaks it. The first time Blackburn destroyed this town by poisoning the water supply, everyone took their settlement checks and left. Then we moved in. Now they’ve done it again, and once again there’s a settlement deal on the table. Maybe some folks like Mr. Chupick will reinvest it into Brentwood, but if I know most of the people around here—for sure the ones who are walking around calling their home Burntwood—they’re going to take the buyout and leave. And all of this,” I wave my hand at the last remains of a town that has seen more than its fair share of disaster, “will be left to weather into the ground.”
“But you and Martin will still be here.”
I shrug, remembering Mr. Chupick’s words when I asked him why he never left Brentwood. “Where would we go?”
“Hey, don’t look so glum. In spite of the fire, you did help bring down Blackburn. That’s no small feat.”
Another shrug. “Does it make any difference?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Does it make any difference whether our national security is under the thumb of Christopher Blackburn or Miles Tolan? The megas are like a Hydra. You cut off one head and two more pop up to take its place. It’s the definition of futility.”
“No,” says Cass. “No, that’s not right. It’s a difficult struggle but it isn’t futile. Hercules did it.”
“Hercules wasn’t real.”
“Neither was the Hydra.”
The merry-go-round squeaks as I toe it around one arc minute at a time. Cass falls silent. I know she has something on her mind, something that’s been on her mind the entire afternoon, I’ve just been waiting for her to get to it.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she says finally. “Cyril is moving me off the Free City beat. I’m going to be running internationally.”
“As of when?”
“As of right now. I leave for London tonight. It’s a big step up from point-to-point. Huge. The loads are even more high-value and the stretches much longer…”
“But the pay is much better,” I finish.
Cass smiles, and in that smile I can see how much she enjoys what she does. Sure she does it for the money, we all do, but for her the promotion is also a validation. She’s incredibly good at what she does. Getting the chance to run the global sneakernet is proof of that.
“Hey, you’re a great runner,” she says. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until you get the same bump. We’ll be running side-by-side again in no time. Then you can teach me some more of those moves.”
I return the smile halfheartedly. Cass thought it was funny that I got my picture broadcast all over the news stream. Just like me, she didn’t realize the broader implications of what that meant. I don’t say anything. She’s on top of the world right now, and I don’t want to ruin that. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I am.” She ruffles my hair with both her hands. “You’re the Carrion. You’ll be flying the Eurozone in no time.”
Ever since the construction site, I have imagined kissing her again. I imagined every little detail. The where and the w
hen and even the how. Whether it was day or night, even the awkward moment just before. But now that the moment is finally here, there is this giant chasm between us that I never could have imagined in a million years. I never thought that the next time I kissed Cassandra Evers, it would be a kiss goodbye. Over the past six weeks I was hit by a lot of things I never saw coming, but none of them punched me in the gut like this one. She’s the first girl I ever really liked.
In the distance, I see the spec of a vehicle coming our way.
A long wet kiss that tastes like raspberries. Three short pecks from her lips to mine. Another long one from me to her. Two more short ones that are both me and her. She puts her hand on my cheek and touches her forehead to mine. The electricity gives me goose bumps.
One more time, for the last time, Cass kisses me goodbye. “See you soon, Jack.”
Before I even have a chance to process what’s happening, the black SUV with darkened windows pulls up. Bulletproof glass from what I can tell. I know who it is even before the back door opens and he gets out. Cyril.
“How’s it going, Jack?” he asks as he holds the door open for Red Tail.
She gets in without looking back.
“You tell me.”
I fully expect his trademark smirk, and he doesn’t disappoint. “You’re quite the trend these days,” he says.
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“Who said anything about fault? There’s no one to blame, it’s just the way things played out.”
I have to hand it to him, the man is nothing if not pragmatic.
“It’s quite unfortunate, though. I had very high hopes for you. You could have been one of the great ones, Jack.”
“It’s not over yet, Cyril. I still can be if you’ll just give me the chance.” But the look on his face says it all. “This is so unfair.”
“Who said anything about fair?” he replies. “Do you remember what I said to you when you asked me why we were so hard to locate?”
“You said they can’t compromise what they can’t find.”
“That’s right. So what does that say about a data runner whose face has become the bitstream of the month?”
It says he’s about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it. I really hate to do this, Jack, but consider yourself clipped.”
And just like that, Cyril lets me go.
“Wait.” I pull up my sleeve to reveal the Carrion Crow on my arm with a cortex chip for an eye. “What about your gear?”
But Cyril just smirks. “Keep it.”
I stand there confused.
“You’re a smart kid,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll find some use for it.” Cyril opens the door of the SUV just enough for himself but not enough for me to see Red Tail sitting inside. “By the way,” he says, “I had to find a new assistant to replace that little prick Bigsby.”
I acknowledge the information with a perfunctory nod. What do I care? It has nothing to do with me.
Cyril taps the driver side window. The door opens and out pops—
“Dex! What the hell?”
This time it’s not a smirk but a full-on smile that Cyril offers as Dexter takes the door from his hand. “I’ll give you two a minute,” he says and disappears into the vehicle. Dexter checks to make sure Cyril’s leg is clear and shuts the door behind him.
“Dex!” The excitement is genuine, bittersweet but genuine. “When did this happen?”
“This morning.” Dexter pulls up his sleeve to reveal the fresh scorpion ink across his thick forearm. It is a very large bird in flight. Wings arched high. Beak large and designed for tearing. Something fierce and aggressive that you wouldn’t want swooping down on you in anger. Clearly it is a bird that has been on this planet for a very long time, with no plans on going anywhere anytime soon. “Griffon Vulture,” he says. “What do you think?”
Griffon Vulture. From what I see on his arm, it looks like a bird that is equally adept at fight as flight. “I think it suits you.”
Dexter lowers his sleeve. “Hey, Jack. It’s too bad it had to turn out like this. I was hoping we could run together like before.”
“That would’ve been nice.”
It’s funny. Sometimes people drift apart slowly, over time. Like when the close friends you start high school with become the distant strangers you don’t even recognize on graduation day. But sometimes it’s just the onslaught of circumstance that pulls people apart—not over the passage of time, but all at once.
“I was really looking forward to showing you this next time I saw you,” says Dex with a sentiment I recognize at once. It was the exact same sentiment I had while saying goodbye to Cass. Dexter never imagined that the next time he saw me would be like this.
“Don’t sweat it,” I say. “Just remember, you’re the one representing the Dragons on the sneakernet now. Do us proud.”
“Always.”
A moment passes that is only broken by the sound of knuckles tapping the other side of the tinted window. Dexter motions that he has to go. He gets into the driver’s seat of the SUV with Cyril and Cass in the back as I turn in the other direction. But just before he leaves, Dexter rolls down the window. “Hey, Jack!”
I turn back.
“You know that getting clipped isn’t any kind of limit…it’s just another plateau.”
I suppose I already knew that, but hearing it brings a smile to my face.
“Be sure to look after the Dragons. You’re the club captain now.”
“I will.” But there’s something else I want to say to Dex. Something to encourage him the way he’s always encouraged me. A few words of wisdom to encapsulate everything I’ve learned about the sneakernet. Unfortunately, I have no such words, and I can’t find them quickly enough, so I settle for the next best thing. “Hey, Griffon!”
He looks over his shoulder as the vehicle pulls away.
“You watch your back out there!”
38
It takes more than a week to get the house back in order—first from being ransacked, then from being burned. Structurally, we’re in pretty good shape. All the bathrooms and most of the kitchen will have to be redone, but the rooms without wet walls have only cosmetic damage. The bannisters on the main staircase have all turned powdery black, and all the walls are stained brown from water and smoke, and no matter how much air freshener we use the whole thing smells like a wet chimney, but in the end the house is still standing. Just like Martin and me.
Now, down in the basement, through a giant hole that was once a heavy door guarded by a biometric security pad, Martin manages to get his systems back up and running. Back online. Hardwired directly into the aggrenet. And for the first time, standing there looking at it from the top of the stairs, I see Martin’s basement for what it really is. Not a workshop at all.
“So this is the Morlock lair,” I say. “Where the mythical Moreau controls the undernet.”
Martin looks up to see me looking down from above. “The best way to hide the truth is to shroud it in myth,” he says as he continues ratcheting together a switch. “And for the record, Moreau does not control the undernet. He has his thumb on the pulse, just like a good sysop should, but the undernet is out there. You, Dexter, Red Tail, Snake, you’re not just surfers on someone else’s infrastructure, you guys are the nodes and relays that make up the undernet. That’s what separates it from the aggregate Internet. That’s what makes it better. It isn’t owned. It’s the sum of its parts.” Martin stops to consider this as he moves to another screw and continues ratcheting. “It’s more than the sum of its parts.”
I take an eyes-wide-open look at what Martin has done with the place. It’s just a musty little basement enclosed by dirty walls, but it’s enough, and it’s private. If nothing else, it’s a place where a man like him can work. Whether it’s Martin Baxter or the shadow they call Moreau, it’s a place where he can re
ally get something done. And isn’t that all a mind like his ever really needs out of real estate?
“So we’re definitely staying then? We’re not going to take the money and run?”
Martin confirms. “It’s where we belong. Moreau can be much more effective out here and protected. You were right about this being our home, Jack. Leaving is the easy way out.”
I descend the stairs to Martin’s worktable. “You know, you still owe me a reason.”
“Reason for what?”
I shake my head. No more question games. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“You want to know about Genie.”
I have all the pieces; I’m just missing the big picture. “You said something about her finding out the truth about Grumwell. And then Snake said that taking over Blackburn was all part of some plan. The doctrine? That’s what you were talking about, wasn’t it? That was the thing that Genie found out.”
Martin nods. “It’s called the Grumwell Doctrine, and it is the unwavering belief that the only successful global empire can be the empire of the corporation. Put simply, it is Arthur Grumwell’s plan to take over the world, to acquire whatever he can and destroy whatever he can’t until the world’s largest private enterprise is also its biggest global superpower. The Grumwell Doctrine is his personal mission to create the next world empire under the banner of a single corporation. His corporation.”
“How come I’ve never heard any of that?”
“Because Grumwell is exceptionally good at selling everything they do. You saw how everybody reacted to Miles’s speech the other day. He painted Grumwell as the great savior that the Alliance so desperately needed, and everybody just cheered. The public loves Grumwell, and Miles uses that affinity to his advantage. Grumwell’s greatest asset is the awe they inspire; with that they can get away with almost anything.”
