Socket 1-3 - The Socket Greeny Saga

by Bertauski, Tony

  Pon did not respond.

  “There is also the matter of analyzing this pre-Trial exercise. We need time to fully understand the events before moving ahead with your training. More importantly, I need you to be fully recovered. I would rather sacrifice a week of training than to have you less than one hundred percent. The Realization Trial is too important. While you have so much potential, I have my doubts the Paladin Nation will show leniency if you do not pass. There are still those that doubt your stability.”

  Shit.

  The Commander’s gaze followed a hawk circling the trees. It folded its wings and dove out of sight, returning to the sky with something flailing in its talons.

  He was not one of those doubters. If he was, I wouldn’t be here, count on that. He was a fair man, but not a fool. If he suspected instability, I’d be done. He knew there were Paladins that doubted my father because he altered his own genetic code to give himself Paladin abilities. But his powers failed to stabilize. And like father, like son.

  The Commander faced the room.

  “I’m sending you home, Socket. A week in your own house will facilitate your recuperation, after which you can return to the Garrison. There will be no more discussion on this matter.”

  Mother slung her briefcase over her shoulder, lifted her chin. Game over. Three servys floated into the room with a hovering chair. They parked next to my bed. Pon’s expression did not change, but I could feel his agitation. I don’t care how you feel, Pon.

  “I expect you back in a week,” the Commander said. “You mean so much to the Paladin Nation’s future, we cannot afford to fail.”

  The Commander paused. I nodded back, not sure if I should thank him.

  “Kay, I’d like to see you before you depart,” he said. “Pon, if you’ll follow me to my office.”

  The Commander exited the room. Pon was rigid. He aimed a glare at Mother. She sensed it and returned one of her own, but it was her cheeks that paled, not his.

  I jumped from the bed. The room wobbled. The timeslicing spark ached to be clutched, but was barely able to glitter in my belly. My knees gave way and I collapsed onto the floater chair. The servys’ rubbery arms helped me sit up. I panted, could hardly lift my hand.

  Pon pursed his lips and blinked slowly. He accepted the decision. And with a slight nod, a warm wave of energy surged through me, vibrating through the pain, easing the aches. I stopped quivering.

  Before I could nod back, before I could acknowledge his healing gift, Pon followed the Commander. Mother took a moment to compose herself. I floated out of the room on the chair, following the servys. Mother was behind me.

  I waited in the car, looking through the clear roof at the parking garage cave and the natural stalactites pointing down like accusing fingers. You are the chosen.

  Pon was right. I couldn’t go home. At least not the home I wanted. There was a house in South Carolina. There was a bed in that house I slept in and a backyard I played in, but that wasn’t home anymore. Home didn’t exist, not one where I returned from school and lounged in front of the television. A home where I stayed up all night in virtualmode battles and we sat around talking about what we were going to do when we grew up. A time and a place where anything was possible. I was searching for that sort of home.

  It didn’t exist. Not anymore.

  Mother cruised out of the garage into the boulder-strewn field. I rolled my head against the seat to catch the breeze. The air was dry but non-filtered, carrying the scent of nature emerging from the ground. Of growth and decay. Do not fear death, for it brings rebirth.

  Garrison Mountain was in the rearview mirror, casting a long shadow over the field. It sped into the distance, further into the past. We drove out of the shadow, into the sun. The windows darkened against the glare. I would be back in a week.

  The wheels unfolded beneath the car as we approached the tree line, touching the uneven ground, jostling me in the seat. We pulled into the shade of the canopies. The wormhole glittered ahead. We passed through the compressed space and came out the other side where the air was humid and thick, laced with the fetid aroma of pluff mud and the siren-song of tree frogs. I closed my eyes and let South Carolina in. Mother’s instinct was right, I needed to be home.

  Or at least a place I could call home, for just a little while.

  V

  For now we see through a glass, darkly.

  Bible, 1 Corinthians xiii

  Without pawns, there can be no king.

  Pon

  T R A I N I N G

  Crossroads

  They weren’t far behind.

  I squeezed through a narrow tunnel barely wide enough for my hips. It was pitch black, but the shift in air pressure indicated I’d stumbled into a cavern. I flicked open my evolver-wrapped hand, ignited an infrared flame and adjusted my goggles. It was a mineral rich cavern. Water trickled down the walls, pooling in the center. In infrared, it looked like blood.

  I cupped a cold handful of water to my mouth. There were seven openings in the cavern that led in different directions. I needed one to get me to the surface before the enemy found my trail.

  My arm was red. That wasn’t infrared water; that was blood. I only had about ten minutes before they zeroed in on it. If I moved quickly, I could buy a few more minutes.

  I waded into the icy pool and washed my arm, the blood clouding the clear water. The temperature penetrated like death. I came up, pushed my hair away. Six caves were near the ceiling. Most were small. They had a slight glow. Could’ve been florescent algae, or maybe sunlight. The seventh one was behind me. It slanted downward and went deeper. It was dark. Water trickled across the sandy floor, finding its way into the bottomless depths of the dark cave. If I wanted to get to the surface, that was a loser.

  I closed my eyes, allowed the moment to unfold, listened to what it had to say. My frigid skin felt shrink-wrapped. I took a deep breath, let it out. The enemy was still far away, but their movements echoed distantly, like rodents scratching their way toward food.

  Another deep breath.

  The air was moving. It wasn’t a breeze, just a gentle sway, not enough to even nudge grass seeds on lofty stalks. My breath was shallow, my chest hardly moved. I followed the slightest motion, let my awareness drift with it like vapor.

  Go deeper.

  I had to trust my instincts and follow my assessment. I eased out of the pool and dropped to my knees, felt along the gritty opening, then plunged into the darkness of the cave behind—

  “No training!” Mother’s voice echoed throughout the network of caves.

  I slammed my head on the ceiling, cut my scalp wide open. Blood streamed down my cheek like sweat, dripping off my chin. The enemy was scrambling toward me.

  An hour, wasted.

  “Log off, Socket. I need to see you.”

  I closed my eyes and let my awareness drift out of my sim, through the bodiless in-between, until I felt the flesh and blood of my body. Back in my skin.

  I looked around my bedroom while my awareness returned from virtualmode. The posters were curling at the corners, a signpost of life before the Paladins. I couldn’t care less about Nine Inch Nails or Dysmal anymore. A Jackson Pollack print, the only non-musical poster, was pinned above the bed. Now that I could still dig. His work was a free slinging montage of paint splatters, unstructured and just I-don’t-give-two-shits what you think. I felt something different every time I looked at it. Some considered Pollack a genius, but he was just as fucked up as the rest of us.

  I wiggled my fingers and toes, ran my tongue over my gums. The transporter imbedded in the back of my neck tingled. It allowed me to transfer my awareness into virtualmode Internet no matter where I was, and in full sensory perception. It just took a little longer reconnecting to skin than usual.

  My scalp hurt. There was no cut or blood. It was just a memory. I opened the door. Mother was at the kitchen table dumping things into her briefcase.

  “How’d you know I was training?” I
asked, rubbing my head.

  “Your imbed was active.”

  “I had a silencer running. Didn’t you think I was sleeping?”

  “There’s only one reason to run a silencer.”

  “Maybe I was hooking up with someone. You know, in a social world or something.”

  She paused to sip her coffee and flicked her eyes in my direction. Please.

  “You’re going back to the Garrison?” I asked.

  “There’re some urgent meetings.”

  “When aren’t they urgent?”

  She grunted, tilting her head in agreement.

  “When can I go back?”

  “You’ve only been home two days, Socket. Besides, Pon is still on assignment. There’s no point so just relax.”

  It felt like two years. The weakness I left the Garrison with was already gone. Well, mostly gone, but I’d been through worse. Sitting around the house wasn’t as glamorous as I imagined. The normal world went about their daily lives while I sat around scratching my balls.

  I shuffled to the refrigerator and grabbed some orange juice, then fell in a chair at the table. My frizzy hair fell in the cup.

  “Why don’t you do something today, like get together with Chute and Streeter?” Mom asked.

  “Chute’s coming over tonight.”

  “Well, there you go. Get out and enjoy your time off. Go watch one of her games or hang out with Streeter. I’m sure he’d love to have you in virtualmode lab.”

  “If I could find him.”

  She mumbled about forgetting something, rushed to her bedroom. “That reminds me,” she called. “He left a message.”

  Why didn’t he just call my nojakk?

  “Yes?” Mother said, apparently answering a call. “Yes, I’ll be there within a half hour. Make sure the ambassador has a projection pad…” She closed the door.

  I finished the juice, spilled some on my shirt next to a jelly stain. “Play messages,” I called.

  The television square lit on the wall in the adjoining family room. Streeter appeared inside it. Well, it wasn’t exactly him, it was his animated sim. The details were so good that someone might think it was a real person; that is, if they believed a blood-stained barbarian lived in this world.

  “Socket, hey.” His bushy mustache shook over his lips. “Just returning your message.”

  Which one?

  “I’ve been, uh, kind of busy, you know. Things have been weird… not that you’d know.” He looked like he wanted to spit. What’s that all about? “Anyway, I, uh, I’ll get back to you later on, you know. Maybe I’ll see you at Chute’s game tomorrow night.”

  Message over. No goodbye, no later on, no see you some other time. Just out. He wanted me to see him make that face, see that something was on his mind. But why the sim?

  “What’s wrong?” Mother stood at her bedroom door, fixing her collar.

  “Something’s up with Streeter.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know. I called him half a dozen times yesterday and then he just sends a message instead of calling back.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him.” She checked her face in the mirror next to the front door, then finished her coffee in one gulp. “I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Something going on?”

  “Some complications with Pike’s relocation.” She tipped her cup again, even though it was empty. “There was a slip up in the preliminary move. Pike overwhelmed another minder and nearly escaped.”

  “You call that a slip up? Is he all right?”

  “No.”

  Minders weren’t child’s play; they were masters of the psychic realm. They could strip a human of all his memories, erase his mind like a hard drive, spin his consciousness around until he vomited. They could will a man’s heart to stop with a single thought. They were the most valued of all Paladins. The most trusted. Still, none of them could compare to Pike. In the past, two of them could subdue him. Now he broke them like toys.

  “Pon was only supposed to be secondary support,” she said. “He’s in charge of the move, now. I doubt he’ll be back to the Garrison until next week, so, you see, there’s no point in you coming back. Your trainer’s busy.”

  “When are they going to just kill Pike?”

  “That’s not Paladin policy.”

  “How many people have to die to change it? Three minders are dead, you know; and they wouldn’t be if we just got rid of him. Three lives for one, the math doesn’t work.”

  She rinsed the cup, placed it upside down in the sink. She stared out the window. “Sometimes it’s hard to know the right thing.”

  “Yeah, well the right thing is to get rid of his ass. It might stink, but that doesn’t make it wrong.”

  She dried her hands, then pushed my hair off my face and looked at me. She’d been doing that more often, lately. Like she knew something. If she did, she didn’t let on. Or maybe that was what happiness looked like on her.

  “You’ll be home for dinner?” I asked.

  “I’ll be later than that. Why don’t you make dinner for Chute?”

  “Believe it not, I was kind of thinking that. But, you know.”

  “You know what? Don’t be wishy-washy, make some food. She’s not going to care what it tastes like. I’m leaving the car, so go to the store.”

  I walked her to the door. A black sedan stopped at the curb. The driver’s door opened. There was no one inside, having driven from the Garrison on auto-pilot. She dropped her briefcase in and waved goodbye.

  I went to the front porch and propped my feet on the banister. Fragrant tea olives were in early bloom. I noticed things like that now, like the density of humidity, the clarity of the sky, the taste of fresh juice. Since training began, my senses continued to open. New experiences presented themselves everywhere; even the simple things like subtle scents or textures were exciting. It seemed lame to say it like that, but the world was everywhere. I just needed to see.

  A school bus squealed around the corner. The passengers stared through the dirty windows like zombies. Some days I wished I could be sitting on a school bus again, mindlessly carted off to school where I could whittle the day away. At least boredom didn’t kill you. But then again, sometimes it felt like it.

  Streeter wasn’t on the bus. Maybe I didn’t see him, or maybe he drove his grandparents’ car. I had a feeling it was none of the above.

  “Locate Streeter,” I said, touching my cheek. My nojakk linked up with Streeter’s and calculated his location.

  “Streeter is currently at 724 West Market, Charleston, South Carolina.”

  A house call was in order.

  T R A I N I N G

  Gates of the dead

  The white house was thirty feet from the road. The shades were drawn. The driveway was empty. Streeter’s grandparents never parked in the garage because there wasn’t room. It was strictly storage. They never threw anything away and I’d dug through that mess with Streeter a thousand times looking for a plate or lamp his grandmother just knew she’d put in there.

  I stepped onto the front porch, past the wicker chairs and potted ficus trees, stopped at the door and listened. Nothing stirred inside. Maybe my nojakk was wrong and he wasn’t there, or maybe he was just late for school and missed the bus. Maybe his grandparents took him. So why am I tip-toeing? Because the energy around the house was foreboding, like a ghost was in the attic.

  I knocked. It echoed inside. Knocked, again.

  There was a key under the ficus. It had been there since I was five. I could use it, but it would be hard to explain if his grandma came home and, on the chance Streeter wasn’t home, I’d be wandering around inside.

  The small surveillance eye, about the size of a marble, was still above the door. The surface swirled. It was still working. Something wasn’t right. The house just felt… dark.

  I hopped the privacy fence and crept up to the first window. The shade was drawn on Streeter’s room. I cupped my hands against the window and
peered through a gap below the shade. The desk and dresser were covered with clothes and the floor wasn’t visible under books, papers and Internet gear. Nothing had changed.

  The bed was in the corner with a mess of covers. I thought about going around back and looking through the kitchen window when the bed twitched. A hand was sticking out, fingers twiddling on the mattress. A cable stuck out from under the pillow.

  Virtualmoding.

  He was on the Internet, virtualmoding in his giant sim. He knew I was at the front door, that surveillance eye would’ve reported the view to him. In fact, there was another eye somewhere outside his window, watching me watching him.

  “Streeter!” I tapped the window. “I need to talk to you, get up!”

  His fingers stopped twitching.

  “I see you, I know you’re in there.”

  It wasn’t enough.

  “I’ll get the key,” I said. “I’ll let myself in and drag your ass out of bed.”

  He still wasn’t moving. Maybe the key wasn’t there anymore. Slowly, the mound came to life. Streeter sat up.

  No way.

  He was still short but thirty pounds lighter. His face was dark. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, pulled the over-sized transporters from behind his ears. He sat on the bed, slumped over. Thinking. Maybe I was going to have to get the key after all. But then he stood. He used to be built like a hot air balloon. He sprung a leak.

  The door was open when I got to the front porch. Streeter was walking away.

  “You all right?” I followed him to his bedroom.

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  I touched the lamp on his desk, lighting his room. Dark energy pulsed around him. His breath was shallow, as if it didn’t matter whether he stopped breathing all together.

  “What’s wrong with you?”