The Terminal State

by Jeff Somers

  “Adrian,” I panted as a wave of dizziness passed through me. “Any fire coming from our right?”

  He and Mara crept up beside me and knelt down, forming a hot, unhappy circle of distrust and murder in the shadows. “I do not think so,” he whispered.

  “Why are you fucking whisperin’?” Mara hissed. “You think they forgot we’re here? ”

  He stared at her for a second or two, steady and expressionless, then glanced at me with a slight smile. “I was not taking good notes, but the left only.”

  I nodded, gesturing up at the jagged row of shining skyscrapers across from us. “They own the treetops, right? They’ve got a great view of this whole fucking boulevard. But they don’t own the other side, or they’d have carved us into pieces with crossfire.” I pointed. “Make for the wall. They’ve got fixed-position heavy-cal guns with a wide horizontal and vertical scope, but they won’t be able to shoot steep enough if we press up against it. Single file, we can follow it practically all the way to the hotel.”

  Mara shouldered her way closer to the edge. “The road curves . . . there,” she said, pointing one slender finger. “It’ll open up their field and eventually they’ll have us.”

  I shrugged. “Sure. That’s twenty minutes from now. You can either sit here and pitch grenades until someone dials back their timers and you get blown to shit, or you can go back to sprinting endlessly with murder on your heels.”

  She stared out at the scene around us, and finally nodded. “All right, may—”

  Something hit the ground behind us, followed immediately by three more tiny impacts.

  “Move!” I shouted, shut my eyes, and stumbled into motion.

  XXIX

  A LONG HISTORY OF POKING ME WITH A SHARP STICK

  The moment I hit the watery light that infused Hong Kong like a liquid version of the dull metal every building seemed to have been carved out of, like glassy, smooth stalagmites, the churning roar of the guns started. They took two, three seconds to warm up and start spitting metal, and I pushed myself into a redlining sprint, duffel and rifle slapping into my thighs painfully as I forced my leaden legs to pump up and down.

  The monolithic buildings on either side were disorienting—all this empty space, these yards and yards of old pavement, old yellowed weeds cracking through and creating a crazy pattern that kept trying to catch a toe and ruin me, and then on either side these faceless buildings, taller than anything I’d ever seen, taller than anything New York had offered. The feeling of all that steel and glass and concrete sailing down onto me was crushing.

  All along the bases of them were the scabby little huts, but even these were too precise, too neat. In New York, people had clogged the old streets with hovels like these, but it had been chaos, huts built on huts, huts built on top of other huts, slowly creeping upward along the cracked and crumbling facades of the old buildings. Here, they were orderly, just a line of them snaking along the walkways, no more than two levels high, like wooden barnacles. Some had been secured with chains and locks, as if the evacuation of Hong Kong had been orderly and expected.

  Thinking, Three seconds, I closed my eyes and veered sharply to my left. The sound of asphalt being chewed into oatmeal accompanied a drumming, heavy vibration under my feet and I was sprayed with hot chunks of the road.

  Keep moving, I thought. Keep moving.

  I opened my eyes again and the wall was weaving and wobbling toward me, the ground still rumbling under my feet. For two steps, the single line of fire continued to chew up the road to my right, and then with a coughing whine, the second gun began to warm up. If they crisscrossed me, I knew I’d be cut in half and be dead before I felt a goddamn thing. I thought of Michaleen. I thought of that short little murderous bastard and what he’d done to me—first in Chengara, using me, lying to me and then leaving me for fucking dead, and then buying me out of the army and setting my boots on this road. It was suddenly very clear to me that Mickey had found me first and somehow arranged for the Press Unit. Somehow. I didn’t know how, but I knew Michaleen had connections. His SSF file we’d found was open only to Director Marin—and that devious motherfucker had a long history of poking me with a sharp stick.

  As I ran, I made fists.

  Just as the second gun came online, I tried to veer right, but my left foot jammed into a deep pothole and I went down, managing to cross my arms in front of my face before giving my nose its third smashing in an hour. My HUD flickered again as the wind was knocked out of me, but the twin trails of piano wire dicing up the street and trying to carve me up crisscrossed three feet ahead of me, approximately where I would have been, and as I swallowed something thick and hot that tasted suspiciously like my own polluted blood, I pushed myself up and yanked my foot free, the ankle barking. I ran right for the spot, figuring the geniuses running the guns would assume I’d be taking the angle again. My ankle didn’t like taking my weight and I almost went down again, windmilling my arms as I crashed forward, finally getting my balance back as my overworked augments dumbed down the pain.

  Both guns were hot now, and the phlegmy rumble filled the air, the road humming with it, this twitchy zombie energy that just wanted to eat everything in its path. I imagined the gun operators up there, fucking pinheads most probably, wastes who had been standing on street corners jonesing for a hit two months ago now suddenly warned on pain of death to read a very long and unillustrated user manual and put in charge of a mounted gun the size of a fucking hover. All controlled via dermal pickup—your fucking thoughts. These assholes hadn’t had a thought that didn’t involve slitting a throat or getting high in decades. And the guns were twitchy, overreacting, spinning like they were greased one moment and fighting you for every inch the next.

  I kept my steaming eyes on the shit-brown retaining wall and thought, These cocksuckers are gonna nail me by fucking accident.

  The wall suddenly rushed up toward me, and before I could get out of its way I smashed into it. I let myself go limp and just leaned into it, dragging the thick air in through my open mouth in spastic, painful gasps that never felt deep enough, long enough.

  The wet roar and underground rumble continued for a few seconds, and then suddenly stopped.

  “Stop runnin’, Cates!” Mara shouted, closer than I’d expected, to my right. “You made it!”

  “And you were correct,” the Poet shouted from farther away in the same direction. “They can’t adjust the angle. We are quite sheltered.”

  I struggled to suck in enough air and turned my head toward them, scraping my forehead against the old brick. Mara and the Poet were close together a few feet away. “Move,” I said. “We’ll have a few minutes before the curve exposes us.”

  Mara did a good job of nodding tiredly, as if she wasn’t nuclear powered and shock absorbing, and they both turned and began walking, keeping as close to the wall as possible. I watched them for a few unsteady heartbeats, my breathing starting to slow down to mere desperate gulps, and then I shifted the weight of the duffel and the shredder on my back and stumbled after them.

  It was peaceful, suddenly. In the guns’ blind spot, we were all in a holding pattern: They couldn’t get a shot at us, and we had just a few hundred feet of peace before we had to make another dash into hell.

  I walked blankly, not thinking about anything but how my breathing got a little easier every step. I thought about the last real dinner I’d had—the last dinner that hadn’t come in a pill or been pumped into my veins while I slept. Englewood: boiled rabbit, fucking disgusting, a hunk of greasy flesh with a pile of stringy green shit on the side so you could sandblast one horrible taste from your mouth with another horrible taste. I could still taste it, now that I brought it to mind.

  I looked up and squinted at the city through my own greasy layer of sweat. Rain had started falling again, a quiet hum of background noise. In the moment of calm, Hong Kong was beautiful. Everything gleamed—it was all glass and steel, and the steel swooped and bent in ways that I’d never s
een before. Everything tore your eye up until your neck hurt and you were squinting into a thousand tiny flares. Some of the buildings were so weird, with their odd angles and curved edges, I didn’t understand how they stayed up. As you dragged your eyes down, though, everything got crowded and muddy, swelling out from the elegant metal needles like rotting roots, bursting up through the ground—the scabby wood huts, the old stone walls with deep cracks and layers of grimy graffiti in characters I didn’t recognize.

  I kept my eyes up as I walked, one hand trailing the rough surface of the retaining wall. I liked the skyscrapers. I imagined it was quiet and open up there.

  “Cates,” Mara shouted back at me, “I think—”

  She was interrupted by the twin whine of the two big guns warming up.

  “Take a step back!” I shouted, snapping my eyes down to ground level and trotting forward to catch up with them. We were under the shadows of the ugly, squat structure I’d spied earlier on the other side of the wall, a series of shallow levels, all concrete, open to the air. I remembered the hover I’d seen. It was amazing that someone had piloted it through the narrow bands of the structure to land it, although it was possible it had just somehow crashed that way; the building was cracked and shabby looking, with some of its facade fallen away to reveal the rusting girders beneath, so any crash damage would have been easy to miss. I was still covered in a layer of chilled sweat, my hair plastered against my skull, and I could feel myself shivering, my hands shaking, as I trotted.

  As I caught up to Mara and the Poet, the guns vomited back into life. Right in front of us was a blurry line of shadow made by the wall, and a few feet beyond that, the pavement fountained up again.

  Mara turned to me, raising a smug eyebrow like she wouldn’t be cut to fucking chum just like me if we made a wrong move. “You’re a fucking sherpa of rare talent, Cates. We’re hiding in the shadow of a fucking wall in the middle of fucking Hong Kong, and I doubt any other living person coulda brought us here so skillfully.”

  “I didn’t hear any ideas oozing out of you,” I snarled. I planned to reserve my last half hour of augmented existence for finding some way to make an avatar suffer. Shoving past her to toe the invisible line that marked the end of our protected space, I paused to push a finger into her face. She flinched, which made me feel better.

  “You’re closer to Londholm than you’d be without me, yes? ” I hissed. “You want to carp on fucking details, carp away, but keep it up and soon enough we’re going to quality test that piece of tech in your pocket, capisce?”

  I liked that word. I’d heard a cop say it once.

  She smirked and flourished a little bow, indicating I should proceed. It felt a little forced, and I was satisfied I’d made her hesitate, at least. I felt happy, and I knelt down to have a look at our options.

  The big, wide road merged with the ground again, snaking away a few dozen feet to our right, with the wall snaking right along with it, pushing us unavoidably out into the guns’ range again. The road also rose up, taking away even the illusion of cover. The rain felt like it was weighing me down, soaking into me and making me swell up. I reached down and picked up a handful of muddy dust, rubbing it between my fingers and craning my neck to look around. After a moment, I twisted around to stare past Mara and the Poet at the retaining wall and the crumbling building just beyond it. A few feet, maybe ten. Jumpable, maybe. I’d seen it on the map, a square layered building that went a few stories below us and a few above.

  I looked at Mara. “You ever steal a hover?”

  XXX

  THE HAPPIEST MOMENT OF MY RECENT LIFE

  “Are you fuckin’ out of your mind, boy?” Mara half shouted. “Have y’gone fucking daft?”

  She followed me back the way we’d come as I traced my hand along the wall, examining it.

  “Y’want us to climb up on top of this wall, in clear fucking view, and jump to that fucking building, where a dead hover sits like god’s fucking turd and we’re gonna just hope and pray it’ll grab air? Holy fucking shit, Cates, I think you’ve finally fried your brain.”

  I forced myself to stay calm. I glanced at her and saw the Poet trailing behind us slowly, thoughtful, examining the wall, too.

  “We’re still out of range of the big guns if we climb,” I said. “It’s not an issue of vertical height.”

  She spat on the ground, growling. “And what’s t’stop them from just grabbin’ some unsexy needle guns and just snipin’ us the old-fashioned way? ”

  I shrugged. “What’s to stop them from doing that right now? ” I said. “Aside from the general quality of thug you leave sitting on a gun installation for weeks on end, bored out of their mind. Fuck, Mara, if we hit the ground again, we’re not gonna outrun those guns forever, and if we stand here having a fucking conversation about it we’ll end up sniped eventually.” I reached back and slapped my duffel. “If it’s in decent condition, I think I can get it up in the air. I’ve worked with some talented fucking thieves in my time, and I learned a thing or two.”

  She didn’t say anything. The Poet stood next to her. “Famous though you are, you’re no Milton and Tanner, please do not forget.” He nodded. “But, I like this plan,” he said, stepping past her. “Better than sitting on thumbs, play target practice.”

  I wondered where he’d heard those names, but there was no time for comparing careers. “If the hover’s a dud,” I said, “at least we’re on the far side of those guns.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “Fuck, every block of this city’s owned by someone else. They’ve all got these installations, dammit. Hoppin’ the fuckin’ wall ain’t going to solve that.”

  I nodded. “Then hope the hover lifts.”

  The Poet slapped a hand against the wall. “Here is a good spot,” he said, eyes moving appraisingly up and down the old, corrupt stone. “Good handholds and the wall slopes.” He looked at me, the tiny images of murder on his skin flickering, endlessly killing each other. “I should go first, then.”

  The urge to argue with him was weak. We were all professionals here and if Adrian thought he had the best shot, I wasn’t going to volunteer. “We’ll try to distract them,” I offered. “Move fast, in case there is a bright boy up there with a sniper rifle and half a brain.”

  He smiled, white teeth breaking through his beard like the sun through clouds. “Always teaching, you. I’m able to climb a wall.” He gave me an obvious look of appraisal. “Will you be able? ”

  I grimaced. “I got twenty years and a couple of fucking major surgeries on you,” I growled, trying to sound mean. I liked Adrian, but even folks you liked you had to keep in line. “You want me to carry you up and over?”

  He laughed, waving a hand. “When was the last time,” he said, backing away, “that you took a bath, Avery? No, I’ll go alone.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. I thought, maybe, if we both survived this, I might see where the Poet ended up and see what we might do together. See if he was pissed off at Mickey enough to take a hand in my business there, see what we might do working our own line, without augments in our heads forcing us into someone else’s.

  He spun away and without hesitation leaped up onto the wall, his hands finding decent holds. For a moment he just hung there, arms and legs splayed, suspended on the wall as if stuck there. Then he reached out his right hand and found another hold.

  “A little faster, eh? ” Mara shouted. “Or they’ll be able to walk over here with pistolas and beat us to death before we’re over.”

  The Poet took a moment to wave a hand at us, and I shrugged the duffel onto my back. I took the wall on a short run, launching myself up and grabbing some shallow holds with my fingernails and the narrow tips of my boots. One foot slipped and I had to scrabble a little, determined not to punk in front of Mara, finally catching hold and pushing myself up. I began sweating again immediately, my legs getting shaky. After three or four pulls I paused, hanging there and blowing like a fat man at dinner again.

/>   Mara was suddenly at my side, clinging to the wall like she was glued to it.

  “Don’t say a fucking word,” I managed to wheeze. “Or I’ll—” I stopped myself, shutting my mouth and grunting. If she didn’t know I’d figured her for an avatar, there was no margin in letting her in on it. As far as advantages went, letting her think I was stupid was about the best I could do for one. I allowed myself to start coughing, and she smirked and pulled on past me.

  When I was halfway up, the Poet’s feet disappearing over the edge above me, the hum of the big guns suddenly cut off, leaving me clinging to the irregular wall in almost total silence. I closed my eyes and settled into a rhythm for a few minutes, just concentrating on pulling myself up a few inches at a time. When I opened my eyes, I was a foot from the top, and the Poet was lying flat, holding out his hand.

  “Come on up, old man,” he said. “All you have to do is jump. I think we’ll make it.”

  I took his hand and with one last push I was on top of the surprisingly wide wall; it was about two feet thick and we could crouch on it easily enough. The crumbling structure across the way from us loomed higher, but since every floor was open to the air, it would be possible, I thought, to leap the fifteen or so feet and angle down through one of the gaps. It would be a hard landing, but with any luck my augments had enough juice left in them to give me a decent tuck and roll I’d never have pulled off in my previous incarnation as a fucking human being.