Future Americas

by John Helfers

  Pushing the hair away from her throat, he saw the biggest visible wound—a bloody gash from ear to ear.

  ‘‘And no murder weapon left behind.’’ Nevada was thinking out loud, repeating what Connecticut had already told him. ‘‘No bloody footprints, no fingerprints, no nothing.’’

  ‘‘Tell me.’’ Sinaloa flipped the red-lined bullfighter’s cape over his shoulder with a flourish. ‘‘How is your first investigation going? Can you tell us who murdered Missouri?’’

  Nevada spotted the edge of a bloody symbol sticking out from under the toilet paper wrapped around Yukon’s forearm. Tearing away the paper, he saw that there were two symbols underneath—two numerals carved into Yukon’s flesh.

  Two nines, carved side by side. Together, they made the number ‘‘ninety-nine.’’

  Just as the number one hundred had been cut into poor Missouri’s flesh.

  ‘‘Well?’’ said Sinaloa. ‘‘Can you tell us who murdered Missouri?’’

  ‘‘Same person who murdered Yukon,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘And there’ll be more to come.’’

  ‘‘What makes you say that?’’ said Sinaloa.

  ‘‘Because he’s counting down from a hundred,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘A hundred of us.’’

  Nevada sat at the end of the reflecting pool, gazing across the still water at the Lincoln Memorial. Antarctica, who was sitting beside him, had kicked off her crystalline shoes and dropped her pale, slender feet into the water.

  The ripples from her feet disturbed the scenes playing over the pool’s surface—visions of life beyond the digital domain in True America. Men, women, and children worked and played in softly swirling moments, flickering across the sunlit water like memories.

  It was here that the e-reps and e-sens came to watch the proof of their good work—the results of the legislation they passed on behalf of the American electorate. It was here that they came to see the faces of the people they served and strengthen their resolve to preserve the American dream.

  ‘‘You’re sure the killer won’t stop?’’ said Antarctica.

  ‘‘There are one hundred e-reps,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘The first victim was marked one hundred, and the second was ninety-nine. Ninety-eight is next, then ninety-seven . . . all the way to one and zero.’’

  Antarctica sighed and frowned. ‘‘I can’t believe the Developers are letting this happen. Can’t they just re-program the source code to bring back the dead and stop the murders?’’

  ‘‘Maybe not.’’ Nevada stroked the dark stubble on his chin. ‘‘Maybe they’ve lost control of the simulation.’’

  ‘‘I hope not,’’ said Antarctica.

  ‘‘Or maybe they’re letting it happen,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘Hell, maybe they’re making it happen.’’

  Antarctica looked shocked. ‘‘The Developers wouldn’t do that, would they?’’

  Nevada shrugged. ‘‘How should we know? The Developers keep to themselves.’’

  ‘‘But it doesn’t seem possible.’’ Antarctica shook her head and gazed into the water. ‘‘None of this does.’’

  ‘‘Got that right.’’ Nevada stretched out on his side, propping an elbow on the cement. Even with everything that was going on, he felt a sense of peace in this place, a clearheaded perspective that came to him more strongly here than anywhere else.

  Of all the places in the digital realm, the reflecting pool would always be the most special to him. It was here that he’d last seen Idaho before she’d disappeared from his life.

  It was here that he’d last made love to her.

  ‘‘What about Looking Glass’s clues?’’ said Antarctica. ‘‘Do they mean anything?’’

  ‘‘I’m sure they do,’’ said Nevada, ‘‘but I haven’t figured them out yet.’’

  ‘‘ ‘When is one one-hundred?’ ’’ Antarctica narrowed her silver eyes in thought. ‘‘He must have meant the one hundred e-reps of Congress, right?’’

  ‘‘Probably,’’ said Nevada.

  ‘‘Or he might have meant me.’’ Antarctica’s eyes widened. ‘‘I’m the one-hundredth e-rep, from the one-hundredth state! What if I’m the next victim?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘The killer counted Missouri as number one hundred for some reason. Maybe reverse order of importance. Missouri was speaker of the House, number one in terms of power . . . so the killer counted him as last, as number one hundred.’’

  ‘‘And Yukon was the minority leader.’’ Antarctica sounded relieved. ‘‘Second most powerful. So you don’t think I’m next, Nevada?’’ She smiled over her shoulder at him.

  ‘‘No, sweetheart.’’ Nevada smiled back at her. ‘‘I don’t think you’re on the killer’s radar right now.’’

  Just then, without warning, Antarctica shot forward and disappeared under the water.

  Heart pounding, Nevada scrambled to the edge of the pool and stared at the spot where she’d gone under. Since the water was murky with projected scenes of True America, he couldn’t see below the surface. No trace of Antarctica or whatever had pulled her in was visible.

  Then, suddenly, one pale hand broke the surface of the water. Without hesitation, Nevada lashed out his own hand and locked onto it.

  Determined not to lose Antarctica, Nevada pulled up hard . . . but whatever had hold of her wouldn’t let go. Nevada didn’t want to hurt her, but she was running out of air, and he had to act fast. Leaning out farther, he clamped his other hand around her wrist . . . and then he pulled as hard as he could.

  The underwater force resisted, and Nevada redoubled his efforts. Finally, the thing in the pool released its grip, and Nevada hauled Antarctica free with one great heave.

  The two of them tumbled backward on the edge of the pool. Nevada cradled her in his arms as she coughed up water and gasped for breath.

  Finally, her silver eyes flickered open and met his gaze. ‘‘Guess what?’’ Her voice was shaky as she said it. ‘‘I think I’m on the killer’s radar after all.’’

  Nevada stroked the platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘‘Who pulled you in?’’ he asked. ‘‘Did you get a look at them?’’

  Antarctica shook her head. ‘‘All I know is, their touch was beyond ice cold. It was so cold, I couldn’t stand it, and that’s really saying something.’’

  Nevada stared at the surface of the pool, which was as smooth as if nothing had happened a moment ago. He wondered who had attacked Antarctica, and why.

  He came up with three possibilities. First, maybe the killer’s hit list was more random than he had thought, or followed a more complicated formula. Second, maybe the killer had tried to murder out of order because Antarctica was helping with the investigation.

  Or third, a more ominous motive had fueled the attack . . . a motive that explained why the underwater assailant had finally let go of Antarctica.

  ‘‘We’ve got to get back.’’ Nevada tipped Antarctica so her feet touched the cement. ‘‘Back to the House.’’

  Antarctic
a frowned. ‘‘Why is that?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think you were a target,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘I think you were a diversion.’’

  Pieces of the great state of Zacatecas were scattered all over the House chamber—head on the flagpole, foot on the Speaker’s bench, arm on the podium. Blood was spattered everywhere, and ragged shreds of flesh stuck to the furniture and walls.

  Many of the e-reps were also stained and clotted with their colleague’s remains—including Connecticut, as she explained to Nevada what had happened.

  ‘‘Half an hour ago, the power went out,’’ said Connecticut. ‘‘We heard Zacatecas screaming, but we didn’t know why until the lights came back up five minutes later. We found him . . . like this.’’ She looked down at her bloody hands and clothes. ‘‘Blown up . . . or chopped up. Both, maybe.’’

  Suddenly, Sinaloa stormed toward them, scowling with rage. ‘‘Arrest this man!’’ He grabbed hold of Nevada’s wrist and wrenched it in the air. ‘‘He killed my Mexican hermano!’’

  ‘‘That’s enough,’’ said Connecticut. ‘‘Let him go.’’

  ‘‘Who among us was mysteriously absent when Zacatecas was murdered?’’ Sinaloa shook Nevada’s arm for the crowd. ‘‘This man! This man only reappeared when the killing was finished.’’

  Antarctica pushed forward. ‘‘I was with him when this happened!’’ Her long hair was still damp from the Reflecting Pool, and she’d had to abandon her soaking-wet white fur wrap. ‘‘I tell you, Nevada didn’t kill anyone.’’

  ‘‘Then what was he doing?’’ said Sinaloa.

  ‘‘Saving my life!’’ said Antarctica. ‘‘I was attacked at the Reflecting Pool!’’

  ‘‘How do we know for sure?’’ Sinaloa locked eyes with her and sneered. ‘‘Perhaps you were his accomplice in this atrocity.’’

  Fed up with the grandstanding, Nevada tore his wrist free of Sinaloa’s grip. ‘‘This is exactly what they want.’’

  ‘‘ ‘They’ who?’’ said Sinaloa.

  ‘‘You’re right about one thing,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘More than one person is involved in these murders.’’

  With that, Nevada headed for the front of the chamber. The crowd of e-reps silently parted to make way for him.

  Sinaloa followed. ‘‘Of course I’m right,’’ he said, ‘‘but what makes you admit it?’’

  ‘‘Someone attacked Antarctica at the Reflecting Pool while the murders were underway here.’’ Nevada walked up to the podium, where Zacateca’s left arm rested. ‘‘That tells us at least two people are involved. Maybe more.’’

  ‘‘Maybe more?’’ Sinaloa sounded skeptical.

  Nevada gazed at the severed arm on the podium, its hand curled into a loose fist. ‘‘In five short minutes, power was cut to the House, Zacatecas was torn to pieces, and power was restored. That’s a lot for one person to do alone in that amount of time.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know about that,’’ said Sinaloa.

  Nevada turned the arm over. ‘‘In that same five minutes, someone also did this.’’ Nevada held up the arm for the crowd to see. ‘‘Cut open Zacatecas’ coat and shirt sleeves and carved the number ‘98’ into his flesh.’’

  The watching e-reps gasped and mumbled.

  ‘‘The countdown continues,’’ said Nevada, ‘‘unless we start working together and find who did this.’’

  Sinaloa glowered at Nevada for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling with rapid, angry breaths. Then, he spun and marched up the aisle toward the back of the chamber.

  ‘‘You’re right,’’ he said over his shoulder. ‘‘It’s time to get some answers.’’

  Nevada frowned and put down Zacatecas’ severed arm. ‘‘How do you plan to do that?’’

  ‘‘By making a call,’’ said Sinaloa. ‘‘You’re welcome to join me.’’

  ‘‘Making a call to whom?’’ said Nevada.

  ‘‘Who else?’’ said Sinaloa. ‘‘The Developers.’’

  In the center of the vast rotunda beneath the dome of the Capitol building, Sinaloa came to a stop on a single glowing tile. Nevada and Antarctica, who had followed him from the House chamber, stood to one side and watched.

  When Sinaloa placed his right hand over his heart and recited the Pledge of Allegiance, a shaft of light burst up from the glowing tile, striking the middle of the dome. Smoothly, the dome split on one side and rolled open, revealing a starry night sky overhead.

  The shaft of light from the tile spiked straight up, never dimming as it shot into the heavens. This was the holy connection to the godlike Developers in the world outside, the fabled soulpipe.

  Nevada shivered as he watched the soulpipe disappear in the unknowable distance. As often as he’d seen it in action, the sight of the climbing, blazing conduit still filled him with awe.

  ‘‘I’ve never actually seen a soul call before.’’ Antarctica’s voice was soft and slow with wonder and surprise. ‘‘Will the Developers answer?’’

  Nevada shrugged. The same question was foremost in his own mind at that moment.

  Since the murders, the role of House Speaker had fallen on Sinaloa, which qualified him to make the soul call. As a rule, though, the Developers didn’t answer every query from the digital realm. In the past, they’d already gone years without responding to a call, so there was no way to know what would happen this time.

  In the blazing light of the soulpipe, Sinaloa gazed upward and spread his arms wide. ‘‘O Masters of the Source Code, I beg you—hear my prayer!’’ Sinaloa’s feet left the floor. Spinning slowly, he rose into the air, following the soulpipe’s beam. ‘‘Representative Sinaloa . . . transmit now!’’

  Suddenly, Sinaloa exploded upward, streaking along the soulpipe in a strobing blur. There was a distant sonic boom as he vanished in the heavens, flashing out of sight among the flickering garlands of stars.

  ‘‘Wow.’’ Antarctica walked around the base of the soulpipe, staring up into Sinaloa’s rippling wake. ‘‘He’s in True America now?’’

  ‘‘Somewhere between here and there,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘A hub outside their firewall.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you mean fire ball?’’ said Antarctica.

  ‘‘Fire wall,’’ said Nevada.

  Antarctica frowned. ‘‘It’s just that I see one now. A fire ball.’’

  Nevada squinted upward . . . and then he saw it, too. A clutch of flames far above, burning in the firmament.

  Burning and falling.

  Without another moment’s thought, Nevada lashed an arm around Antarctica’s waist and ran with her, racing her away from the soulpipe. Just as they reached the far wall of the rotunda, a thunderous impact crashed down behind them, shaking the cavernous chamber.

  Nevada and Antarctica stumbled as the floor buckled. Bracing each other, they managed to stay on their feet . . . and as the tremor faded, they turned.

  The soulpipe was gone. In its place, in the center of the rotunda, was a smoking
crater.

  ‘‘Stay back,’’ Nevada told Antarctica, and then he ran toward the crater. In spite of his order, he heard Antarctica running close behind him.

  When Nevada reached the broken rim of the crater, he saw what had caused the impact. He saw what had fallen from above like a fiery comet.

  The body of Sinaloa lay in the crater’s heart, curled like a fist and charred from tip to toe.

  Antarctica drew up alongside Nevada and gagged. ‘‘Oh, no.’’

  ‘‘I guess they’re not taking our calls.’’ Nevada stepped over the edge and eased into the crater. He saw that parts of Sinaloa were still smoldering, glowing cherry red in familiar patterns.

  There were messages on Sinaloa’s body, burned instead of carved into his flesh.

  ‘‘Ninety-seven.’’ Nevada pointed to Sinaloa’s left arm, where the numbers had been branded. Then he pointed at the letters seared into Sinaloa’s right arm. ‘‘A-C-I-R-E-M-A. Acirema.’’

  Finally, he read the smoking words on Sinaloa’s charred chest. ‘‘‘ANSWERS IN HOUSE NOW!’’’

  Leaping into action, Nevada clambered up the crater’s slope. Antarctica gave him a hand clearing the rim.

  And Nevada started running the instant his feet hit the floor. His heart hammered in his chest as he headed for the House chamber.

  Even though he already knew.

  ‘‘I don’t understand.’’ Antarctica caught up and ran beside him. ‘‘Why would they kill Sinaloa and tell us we’ll get answers in the House?’’

  Nevada didn’t answer, though he knew. He knew all too well.

  He knew that he was too late.

  Four figures wrapped in star-spangled robes waited outside the big double doors of the House chamber. Their faces were hidden in the depths of shadowy hoods, arms folded across their chests.