"You didn't see her, did you?"
Tabby shakes her head. What I expected—nobody sees the Locker. She hacks too fast.
"Hubsy, what am I gonna do?"
"Hang in, girl, I'll figure something." Gotta think on what. Near twenty of us're locked in the dark now. And Turban-Daddy said it was a freak hardware-jacking.
I ask, "Where'd she snatch you?" Glance up a map, overlay it on the cardboard floor and my toes: City border in green, vending machines in blue, checkerbobby run-ins in red, Lockings in yellow. No Lockings here in the Hub, where I was born, but here, there, by Tangletown, by the river.
"Up on the Bridge," says Tabby.
I look up, into the adspace. That zone's not Customable. It roofs us—hides us well. Flashing colors, products for rich cityfolk, mind-ware upgrades, and a jumble of news, all inside-out. The Chief of Police looks stern beside the Mayor's smiling face. Through sometime dark spots, the Bridge sparkles above.
But the Bridge is City: witnesses, vids all over. Checkerbobbies could pull the Locker in for questions, easy. A first mistake. Why'd she be stupid, when she's not stupid?
"Is she gonna Lock me, Hubsy?" asks Fingers, wringing.
"Dunno." I shrug. "She tries to Lock me, I'll scratch her eyes out, fact."
"You can fix me, can't you?" Tabby whimpers. "You got skills. You fixed me before."
Scared to try; scared to fail. I should've done something sooner, before Big Fisher got fished. Our best food-raider gone dark—we've been hungrier since. Fuck the Locker, for scaring me.
I reach back of my head for my hardport-cable, unwinding it from my locks. "Your Arkive router's wrecked, but there's options. 'Spose I could code something. Wouldn't be the Arkive..."
Fingers nods. "You can do it, I know you can!"
I better try. We lose more raiders, we'll starve, fact. More corpses on the riverbank.
2. Raid
Nope, what I done's sure not the Arkive.
Watching at the City's edge with my Arkive maps, GPS flags, and vid-hacks integrated, I got the god's-eye view of everything up to the vending row two blocks north. Under the row's bright adsign, radio transponders in the machines call out: Empty, empty.
I'm no kind of god. Hours of work through hardport-cable, and I could only whip up a sorry-ass little texting network, scrolling red text in our upper left vision. Couldn't link to the Arkive, which means no CustomEyes, no handme-downloads, no GPS maps, no signs or labels on anything. Tabby-face, Big Fisher, Harkara and the others needed a miracle, and I gave them pathetic crap.
Still I'm glad our raid team's whole again.
Dawn's threatening; streetlights'll turn off soon. Two blocks away on vid, the refill truck pulls into view.
HUBGIRL: TRUCK COMING @EAST. FISHER'S TEAM GO. JIGGLY'S TEAM GO.
GPS flags start moving. The three Locked kids on vid-only are harder to track. Should've put them all on the same team.
FINGERS: CAN'T WE MSG U W/ARKIVE?
JIGGLY: EASIER!!!
About to break cover across the street, I stop.
HUBGIRL: NO! TABBY & HARKARA & FISHER NEED TO C ALL MSGS, & U THEIRS.
HARKARA: HATE I CAN'T C WHERE U ALL R.
TABBY-FACE: NERVOUS!
BIGFISHER: LEAST WE CAN DO R PART NOW. THX, HUBGIRL.
HUBGIRL: GOT MY I ON U, OK?
Gotta be okay. They're hungry and counting on me.
I dart across the street. By now the refill truck's in place, backside of this building, and the driver's getting out. I flick from vid to vid, trying to ID. Lately, cityfolk have a spook reflex; let's figure out what this one'll startle for.
Yep, that's the angle. Driver's a guy who once spied me with my locks down and screamed. Unknown passenger, though, worries me.
HUBGIRL: DRIVER ID'D FOR BLACKSTARTLE. WATCH PASSENGER. FISHER'S TEAM ON DIV. JIGGLY'S ON GRAB.
Count a minute. Streetlights sputter out. Two machines're open now, both men unloading the truck—which means three targets and two guards.
HUBGIRL: JUMP TIME.
Big Fisher bursts out, straight for a machine at the end of the row. Driver and passenger both startle—lucky us—but passenger whirls and pulls. Shout echoes round the corner.
"Hold it right there!"
HUB GIRL: PASSENGER'S PACKING, WATCH YOUR BACK!
Fisher zigs and ditches round the corner.
BIGFISHER: FOLLOWING?
HUB GIRL: NO. STAY PUT. 'SPECT THEY FIGURE THEY'RE ONTO YOU.
Last time Fisher circled round, but I never duplicate a game plan. By now Jiggly, Harkara, Tabby-face, and Angan are crouched against the blind side of the truck. Harkara's inside even before Fingers stages her div, walking like begging into the street. Now Jiggly's in, and Angan hits a machine—snatched and out!
HUB GIRL: LUV U ANGAN WELL DONE!
Fingers stops frozen with her hands up.
HUB GIRL: FINGERS U OK? DIV TEAM, FINGERS NEEDS BACKUP.
FINGERS: AT GUNPOINT, GUYS, WHERE U AT?
I been looking too close. I back off single-vid view to the multi-source map, and—
Checkerbobbies?!
Holy crap, whole street's full of uniforms only a block away! What the hell? Way too many for a piddly raid like ours—on foot, no zipcars—must be headed for the slum.
HUB GIRL: URGENT, 15 XBOBBIES COMING @HALF-BLOCK N! FINGERS, DITCH WHEN GUNMAN SEES THEM. ALL ABORT.
HARKARA: FOOD?
Too many aborts lately—stomach cramps just thinking it.
HUB GIRL: IF U CAN GRAB, GOOD, BUT PULL OUT. BIG FISHER, WHERE R U?
Damn, Fisher's moved, not on the same vid, did he get grabbed? Flicking vid to vid...there.
Fisher bolts out from the end of the row, dives across the open machines. Gunman whirls.
BLAM-BLAM!
"Fisher!" Scream's outta my mouth before I can stop it, and I'm running forward. Can't see the sidewalk through the big picture; gotta hope it's clear.
Sudden flash of Jiggly smiling, and in comes an Arkive message.
HUBGIRL WHERE SHOULD I GO?
W. ALLEYWAY QUICK & TAKE TABBY; DON'T USE ARKIVE!!
I repeat on the textnet:
HUBGIRL: W.ALLEYWAY'S CLEAR MOVE NOW!
GPS flags start moving. Hope they're fast enough.
ANGAN: STUCK @E.WHERE DO I GO?
HUBGIRL: SOUTH, STRAIGHT HOME. MEET@HUB 1 HOUR. SOMEONE TELL ME WHERE'S FISHER. FINGERS, U OK???
Her GPS looks on its way to me—I hope she's not shot...
FINGERS: I'M OK, HUBGIRL, THERE'S A COUPLE HOLES IN THOSE MACHINES THOUGH.
HUBGIRL: BIGFISHER CHECK IN PLZ!
"Hubsy?" That's Fisher's deep voice. He's here, big and solid. I shake him.
"Fisher, you scared the fuck outta me!"
"Hubsy, Harkara ain' got outta that truck yet."
Shit.
I check my map. GPS flags are steady back toward the Bridge, no stragglers. Checkerbobbies are all round the truck now, though, and I can't see Harkara.
HUBGIRL: HARKARA, U OK?
HARKARA: STUCK TRUCK. XBOBBIES HELP!
HUBGIRL: HOLD TIGHT.
I glance up/right to put away my map. "Fisher, I'm gonna get him."
"Right behind you."
"Hell no you don't. I already showed I can't handle so many untrackable kids. Here comes Fingers; get home."
He frowns, but moves away.
I ease toward the corner. Take off my steel bracelet, knot it tight into my hair, and spit on my wrists. Can't afford easy grab-handles right now.
Out in the street, two navy-blue uniforms, hats with checkered ribbons: 'bobbies talking with the driver and gunman. No wonder Harkara didn't try to break.
HARKARA: HUBGIRL?
HUBGIRL: I'M AT THE CORNER. DIV FOR U IN 5, 4, 3...
That alley across there'll make a good ditch. Gotta get their attention first, though. I spring right at them. Go go go don't shoot don't shoot ZIG go go go—and into the alley. I run a few more paces, loop round, back toward the stre
et. Was it enough? Harkara's hellbat fast, he'll've made it...
HARKARA: OH GOD, HUBGIRL...
I press up to the corner. Harkara's been nabbed by some new guy outta nowhere—dude in khaki pants one shade darker than his clean-cut chin. Both checkerbobbies're sucking up. You'd think nothing if this was office district, but here?
HARKARA: HE'S TELLING XBOBBIES HE WANTS TO ASK ME QUESTIONS, HUBGIRL WHAT DO I DO?
Questions! Who is this guy? Then the nearest bright adsign morphs off the wall, into a badge that plays weird chimes, and smells of bread and flowers.
Holy crap. Mister Questions can access non-Customables. Means he's official.
HARKARA: HUBGIRL WHAT DO I DO?
Hell if I know!!!
HUBGIRL: TRY PRETENDING U ONLY SPEAK HINDI. KEEP MESSAGING ME WHEN U CAN...
Dunno what to do now. I'm the one who screwed him over, bringing him here on nothing but a text thread.
Mister Questions drags Harkara off. Checkerbobbies head south. The food truck revs, and drives away. I glance up my map view, check the vids. Street's empty.
My fault. I creep out into the road. Something's lying where Harkara got nabbed, up against the curb. A big plastic bottle of whiskey.
HARKARA: THIS GUY'S FREAKY, HUBGIRL. I DON'T THINK HE CARES ABOUT THE RAID.
HUBGIRL: WHAT DOES HE CARE ABOUT?
No answer.
Only one thing to do. Pick up the damn bottle and start home.
3. The Junk Mountain
Looks like checkerbobbies chose South Pylon for their raid. Nice, since I'm headed north carrying loot. But I better trade it off quick.
Not far from the Hub, I spy unBob—looking dug-up across his cardboard, pale scraggled jaw hanging, eyes half-open. Asleep? Lost in some gamer VR overlay, maybe. But he's taken barter before.
I creep closer. Crap, he smells.
UnBob lurches up and grabs my arm.
I jerk. "Hands off!"
"Lookin' good, Hub Girl. How old are you now?" Zombie teeth.
Bastard—I glance up access, breach his Arkive portal and scramble his overlays. "Off, or I shut you down!"
He lets go. His eyes roll up, but my firewall has dragon's teeth. "Fuck you," he spits. But looks at me straight, so I hold up the whiskey.
"Got trade?"
UnBob shrugs. One eye for the whiskey. Some gross vid-overlay in the other, probably. "I got info."
"Can't eat that."
"Don't got food. Info's hot, though, I swear. City mayor's disappeared. Checkerbobbies been 'round here so much try'na find kidnappers." He swipes at the bottle.
I jump back. "Forget it, unBob, that's bull." Slumfolk take the mayor? Dumbest idea I ever heard, who'd just ask for us all to be asswhupped?
"Is not. He disappeared, I saw the vid."
"Then which is it? Disappeared or kidnapped? You can do better'n that."
A sudden flash of Fingers' goofy salute, and a message:
HELP! LOCKER!
Red text blips into the corner of my eye.
BIGFISHER: LOCKER! NEED BACKUP BY JUNK MOUN-TAIN, NOW!
HUBGIRL: ON MY WAY, FISHER. COME IN EVERY-BODY!
Screw unBob. I run half-stooped through the plastic tunnels, hugging the bottle. Makes me sick! Between checkerbobbies and the Locker, no place's safe.
When I get there, it's Angan and Fisher waiting, others still inbound. Angan's always nervy, but that look on Fisher, I can't stand. We quick bump heads. Angan's overlaid gold-eyed frogs, ew. Fisher's warm face is dark as mine—powerful smell of him—but in the overlays? Nothing. Still kills me that he's been Locked—his watchful Orishas made me feel safer.
"I'll take a group round the mountain," I say. Heft my bottle. "Better take her on together."
"I'm coming," says Fisher.
My stomach shrinks. "Fisher, I'm not losing you like Harkara."
He takes my arm. "Hubsy, this is the Locker, remember. I can see her."
Right—with no CustomEyes, he's unhackable. "Smart," I nod. "Thanks, Fisher. Stay close."
We quick group-synch plans and fan to circle the junk mountain. Hell'm I glad Fisher's by me. Soon the tunnels end. Careful feet here: glass, wire, ripped plastic toys. Further along, tires, fridges, dumpsters, burnt-out zipcars. And rats. Adspace's got a lotta crap to cover. I watch every gap, nudge closer to Fisher. Alarm might come from anywhere.
Clang, ca-lack-lang!
I jump, scan—nobody. Something metal falling down the mountain, probably.
Fisher grabs me.
"Shit, Fisher!"
"Locker," he hisses. "Get behind me."
I press behind his back. "What about Fingers?"
"Not yet."
Out from a tangle of trashed scooters comes... Fingers.
"Hubsy," Fingers whimpers. "I'm scared."
"Get away from us, Locker," Fisher growls. "Give our friend back."
That's the Locker? I cut my overlays, but it's still Fingers. Oh holy shit, am I hacked? I check my system, but no sign of breach. Not that I see. I message-all to close in.
"Nice try," says Fingers.
GPS flags keep following the search pattern. Did the Locker intercept? I can't find invader code, can't find point of entry. But she must be in, or how'd she jack my CustomEyes?
Now I'm shaking.
I try textnet. HUBGIRL: LOCKER! CLOSE ON MY POSITION NOW!!!
Here they come.
The Fingers-overlay gasps. She runs at us, jabbing and kicking. Fisher crashes backward, nearly floors me.
"Fisher!" I shriek. I go at the Fingers-overlay, get a couple good hits but then lose my bottle. Next I know, Locker's got me by wrists and hair. Close up, she's sure not Fingers: hands like steel cable, and she smells old.
She hisses behind my ear, breath past my hardports. "How did you message past me?"
I wrestle. Can't get free. "Fuck you! Get outta my head! Give us Fingers back!"
"Sorry, girl, I've got big enemies, and I need her more than you do. Stay out of it, or I'll lock you all."
"You don't scare me."
"Oh, yes I do."
She blanks my sight to blue death.
My stomach tries to jump out my mouth. I choke—but footsteps're closing in. A voice cries,
"Let go of her!"
HUBGIRL: HARKARA, THAT U?
HARKARA: WE'LL GET U OUTTA THERE, DON'T WOR-RY.
Harkara's here??
The cable hands unwind, and I fall. Something stabs my knee. I scramble up blind, blood trickling down my shin. Then my system reverts and I see the Fingers-overlay again. Scream: "What do you want from us?!"
"Oh, Hubsy, you saved me!"
"Hubsy," Fisher mumbles, rubbing back of his head. "That's Fingers."
Breath grates my throat. Gotta trust Fisher. Don't trust myself. I grab for Fingers, find her hand, count six—yeah, that's Fingers. I hug her, hard. Others start coming, start cheering. Big Fisher shakes my shoulder, and this here's really truly Harkara. I salvage the whiskey bottle, and then everybody's got hands on us all around.
"Harkara, you got out!" "Hub Girl, you saved Fingers!" "Hubsy!" "Nobody got Locked!" "That's showin'er!"
"Harkara," I say. "You okay?"
Harkara shrugs bony shoulders. "Was busy awhile. Turns out there's a 'bobby speaks Hindi: that one I've seen swapping info with Turban-Daddy before."
"You mean Checkers Nayyar?"
"That's her. The weird guy, though, he just kept asking how I got disconnected, if I knew who did it. 'Spect it's the Locker he wants. 'Bobbies do what he says, but they don't like it. He's not one of 'em."
I look at Fisher. Deep dark knowing eyes—yeah, he can see it's bad.
When big enemies fight, it's us little ones that get crushed.
4. Mister Questions
One thing's sure: I'm not gonna be a standing target knowing diddley-squat about the players. Better get some info. I've never seen word of the Locker, even in the darknets—but if Mister Questions is coming after her, blaming kidnappers as an ex
cuse to bring checkerbobbies into the slums, I know where to start.
The mayor.
He's linked to this somehow. Was it the Locker took him? Don't figure that's possible—it's not like he's shown up disconnected since.
I glance up the reports. Kidnapped from City Hall steps during a speech, they say. It's text/photo only, vid footage on blackout. Suspicious. I bring up my map, zoom in on City Hall street-level, and turn on Arkive portal view. Security vids'll have it for sure.
Except somebody's been here first. Cache memory's trashed from every vid I hack. This must be bigger'n I thought—wobbles my stomach, fact.
I widen my search, and get lucky. One vid at the perimeter, 'sposed to be aimed up the street but got knocked, and nobody's dumped it.
So there he is, The Man himself, tiny at the frame's edge with one arm off screen. Shouting out about parties getting up in each other's faces, how he's bringing folks together and—
Back it up, watch it again.
Holy crap, he did disappear. Not jumped, not grabbed, just gone, like beamed up. Folks watching go quiet, then loud. Confused. 'Spect they didn't know what they saw.
I'd guess overlay hack, after what the Locker pulled yesterday. That's if I'd seen it live. But could you really hack vids and watchers all at once? With a team of how many? Maybe somebody hacked non-Customables? And where'd the real Mayor go?
Then, midscreen among panicked flunkies, I spot one cool face.
Mister Questions.
Sight of him shivers my backbone. I copy the footage into my hard storage and turn off portal view, shut the map till I see my own toes again. Wiggle them, huff out a breath. Check my own portal safeties. Locker got past those easy enough. Mister Questions could do it in his sleep, probably.
Big enemies.
I whip up a little hack detector. Takes a few minutes, and still doesn't make me feel safe. Time to put some skin on the problem, and go see Turban-Daddy.
Not that I like to. Turban-Daddy's my bio-dad, says I take after him, like that's 'sposed to be why I don't cut my locks. Always offering "if you need help," but only if I diss the gang and swear off hacking. Not fucking likely.
Still, anything that can't be found on the Arkive, he knows it. And he'll have quality trade for whiskey.
Analog Science Fiction and Fact - 2014-07 Page 7
