Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2006 Edition

by Rich Horton

  He had joined the Gaiists after his father had died.

  Unlike Avi, who hadn't waited.

  Aman looked again at the five profiles the AI had presented. All featured organic, wild harvest, natural fiber purchasing profiles. Three were still local. One had recently arrived in Montreal, another had arrived in the Confederacy of South America, in the state of Brazil. Aman scanned the data. That one. He selected one of the local trio. The purchases clustered northeast of the city in an area that had been upscale suburb once, was a squalid cash-worker settlement now. He was walking. Couldn't use mass transit without a chip and didn't have access to a vehicle, clearly. Naïve. Aman let his breath out slowly. Frightened. A little kid with his head under the sofa cushions, thinking he was invisible that way. He wondered sometimes if he could find Avi. It would be a challenge. His son knew how he worked. He knew how to really hide.

  Aman had never looked.

  On a whim, he called up the AI's flag from his earlier search. It had flagged the woman who had died, who had probably been a live in friend or lover. This time, the AI presented him with clustered drug overdose deaths during the past five years. A glowing question mark tagged the data, crimson, which meant a continuation would take him into secure and unauthorized data. Pursue it? He almost said no. “All right, Jimi.” He touched the blood-colored question mark. “Continue.” It vanished. Searching secure government data files was going to cost. He hoped he could come up with a reason for Raul, if he caught it.

  His legs wanted to cramp when Aman finally blinked out of his bioware and got stiffly to his feet. The AI hadn't yet finished its search of the DEA data files. The meal tray on the counter was cold and it was well past midnight. He stuck the tray in the tiny fridge and threw himself down on the low couch. Like Jimi, but not drunk on margaritas.

  * * * *

  In the morning, he messaged Raul that he wasn't feeling well and asked if he should come in. As expected, Raul told him no way, go get a screen before you come back. You could count on Raul with his paranoia about bio-terrorism.

  It wasn't entirely a lie. He wasn't feeling well. Well covered a lot of turf. The AI had nothing for him on the overdose cluster it had flagged and that bothered him. There wasn't a lot of security that could stop it. He emailed Jimi, telling him to work on the Sauza search on his own and attached a couple of non-secure files that would give him something he could handle in what would surely be a fuzzy and hung over state of mind. He found the clothes he needed at the back of his closet, an old, worn tunic-shirt and a grease-stained pair of jeans. He put on a pair of scuffed and worn out boots he'd found in a city recycle center years ago, then caught a ped-cab to the light rail and took the northeast run. He paid cash to the wary driver and used it to buy a one way entry to the light rail. Not that cash hid his movements. He smiled grimly as he found a seat. His ped-cab and light rail use had been recorded by citizen.net, the data company favored by most transportation systems. It would just take someone a few minutes longer to find out where he had gone today.

  City ran out abruptly in the Belt, a no-man's-land of abandoned warehouses and the sagging shells of houses inhabited by squatters, the chipless bilge of society. Small patches of cultivation suggested an order to the squalid chaos. As the train rocketed above the sagging roofs and scrubby brush that had taken over, he caught a brief snapshot glimpse of a round faced girl peering up at him from beneath a towering fountain of rose canes thick with bright pink blossoms. Her shift, surprisingly clean and bright, matched the color of the roses perfectly and she waved suddenly and wildly as the train whisked Aman past. He craned his neck to see her, but the curve of the track hid her instantly.

  At his stop, he stepped out with a scant handful passengers, women mostly and a couple of men, returning from a night of cleaning or doing custom hand-work for the upscale clothiers. None of them looked at him as they plodded across the bare and dirty concrete of the platform, but a sense of observation prickled the back of his neck.

  Why would anyone be following him? But Aman loitered to examine the melon slices and early apples hawked by a couple of bored boys at the end of the platform. He haggled a bit, then spun around and walked quickly away—which earned him some inventive epithets from the taller of the boys. No sign of a shadow. Aman shrugged and decided on nerves. His AI's lack of follow-up data bothered him more with every passing minute. The rising sun already burned the back of his neck as he stepped off the platform and into the street.

  The houses here were old, roofs sagging or covered with cheap plastic siding, textured to look like wood and lapped to shed rain. It was more prosperous than the no-man's-land belt around the city center, but not by much. Vegetables grew in most of the tiny yards, downspouts fed hand-dug cisterns and small, semi-legal stands offered vegetables, home-made fruit drinks, snacks, and various services—much like the street vendors on his block, but out here, the customers came to the vendors and not the other way around.

  He paused at a clean-looking stand built in what had been a parking strip, and bought a glass of vegetable juice, made in front of his eyes in an antique blender. The woman washed the vegetables in a bucket of muddy water before she chopped them into the blender, but he smelled chlorine as he leaned casually on the counter. Safe enough. His vaccinations were up to date, so he took the glass without hesitation and drank the spicy, basil flavored stuff. He didn't like basil particularly, but he smiled at her. “Has Daren been by today?” He hazarded the Runner's real name on the wild chance that he was too naïve to have used a fake. “He was supposed to meet me here. Bet he overslept."

  Her face relaxed a bit, her smile more genuine. “Of course.” She shrugged, relaxing. “Doesn't he always? I usually see him later on. Like noon.” And she laughed a familiar and comfortable ‘we're all friends’ laughter.

  He was using his real name. Aman sipped some more of the juice, wanting to shake his head. Little kid with his head under the friendly sofa cushions. A figure emerged from a small, square block of a house nearly invisible beneath a huge tangle of kiwi and kudzu vines and headed their way, walking briskly, his hand-woven, natural-dyed tunic as noticeable as a bright balloon on this street. Loose drawstring pants woven of some tan fiber and the string of carved beads around his neck might as well have been a neon arrow pointing. “Ha, there he is,” Aman said, and the woman's glance and smile confirmed his guess. Aman waited until the Runner's eyes were starting to sweep his way, then stepped quickly forward. “Daren, it's been forever.” He threw his arms around the kid hugging him like a long lost brother, doing a quick cheek-kiss that allowed him to hiss into the shocked kid's ear, Act like we're old friends and maybe the feds won't get you. Don't blow this.

  The kid stiffened, panic tensing all his muscles, fear sweat sour in Aman's nostrils. For a few seconds, the kid thought it over. Then his muscles relaxed all at once, so much so that Aman's hands tightened instinctively on his arms. He started to tremble.

  "Come on. Let's take a walk,” Aman said. “I'm not here to bust you."

  "Let me get some juice..."

  "No.” Aman's thumb dug into the nerve plexis in his shoulder and the kid gasped. “Walk.” He twisted the kid around and propelled him down the street, away from the little juice kiosk, his body language suggesting two old friends out strolling, his arm companionably over the kid's shoulder, hiding the kid's tension with his own body, thumb exerting just enough pressure on the nerve to remind the kid to behave. “You are leaving a trail a blind infant could follow,” he said conversationally, felt the kid's jerk of reaction.

  "I'm not chipped.” Angry bravado tone.

  "You don't need to be chipped. That just slows the search down a few hours. You went straight from the hack-doc to here, walked through the belt because you couldn't take the rail, you buy juice at this stand every day, and you bought those pants two blocks up the street, from the lady who sells clothes out of her living room. Want me to tell you what had for dinner last night, too?"

  "Oh, Godd
ess,” he breathed.

  "Spare me.” Aman sighed. “Why do they want you? You blow something up? Plant a virus?"

  "Not us. Not the Gaiists.” He jerked free of Aman's grip with surprising strength, fists clenched. “That's all a lie. I don't know why they want me. Yeah, they're claiming bio terrorism, but I didn't do it. There wasn't any virus released where they said it happened. How can they do that? Just make something up?” His voice had gone shrill. “They have to have proof and they don't have any proof. Because it didn't happen."

  He sounded so much like Avi that Aman had to look away. “They just made it all up, huh?” He made his voice harsh, unbelieving.

  "I ... guess.” The kid looked down, his lip trembling. “Yeah, it sounds crazy, huh. I just don't get why? Why me? I don't even do protests. I just ... try to save what's left to save."

  "Tell me about your girlfriend."

  "Who?” He blinked at Aman, his eyes wet with tears.

  "The one who died."

  "Oh. Reyna.” He looked down, his expression instantly sad. “She really wanted to kick ‘em. The drugs. I tried to help her. She just ... she just had so much fear inside. I guess ... the drugs were the only thing that really helped the fear. I ... I really tried."

  "So she killed herself?"

  "Oh, no.” Daren looked up at him, shocked. “She didn't want to die. She just didn't want to be afraid. She did the usual hit that morning. I guess ... the guy she bought from, he called himself Skinjack, I guess he didn't cut the stuff right. She ODed. I ... went looking for him.” Daren flushed. “I told myself I was going to beat him up. I guess ... maybe I wanted to kill him. Because she was getting better. She would have made it.” He drew a shaky breath. “He just disappeared. The son of a bitch. I kept looking for him but ... he was just gone. Maybe he ODed, too,” he added bitterly. “I sure hope so."

  All of a sudden, it clicked into place. The whole picture.

  Why.

  They had reached an empty lot. Someone was growing grapes in it and as they reached the end of the rows, sudden movement in the shadows caught Aman's eye. Too late. He was so busy sorting it all out, he'd stopped paying attention. The figure stepped out of the leaf shadows, a small, ugly gun in his hand.

  "I was right.” Jimi's eyes glittered. “Didn't think I was smart enough to track you, huh? I'm stupid, I know, but not that stupid."

  "Actually, I thought you'd be too hung over.” Aman spread his hands carefully. “I think we're on the same side, here, and I think we need to get out of here now."

  "Shut up,” Jimi said evenly, stepping closer, icy with threat. “Just shut up."

  "Jimi?” Daren pushed forward, confused. “Goddess, I haven't seen you ... what are you doing?"

  "He found you,” Jimi said between his teeth. “For the Feds. You're not hiding very well, Daren, you idiot. Everything you buy has a damn tag on it. He looked up your buying habits and picked you out of the crowd, just like that. He laughed about how easy it was. You were too easy for him to even give the job to a newbie like me.” Jimi's eyes burned into the kid's. “You got to..."

  Aman shifted his weight infinitesimally, made a tiny, quick move with his left hand, just enough to catch Jimi's eye. Jimi swung right, eyes tracking, gun muzzle following his eyes. Aman grabbed Jimi's gun hand with his right hand, twisted, heard a snap. With a cry Jimi let go of the gun and Aman snatched it from the air, just as Daren tackled him, grabbing for the gun. The hissing snap of a gas-powered gunshot ripped the air. Again. Aman tensed, everything happening in slow motion now. No pain. Why no pain? Hot wetness spattered his face and Jimi sprawled backward into the grape leaves, arms and legs jerking. Aman rolled, shrugging Daren off as if he weighed nothing, seeing the suit now, three meters away, aiming at Daren.

  Aman fired. It was a wild shot, crazy shot, the kind you did in sim-training sessions and knew you'd never pull off for real.

  The suit went down.

  Aman tried to scramble to his feet, but things weren't working right. After a while, Daren hauled him the rest of the way up. White ringed his eyes and he looked ready to pass out from shock.

  "He's dead. Jimi. And the other guy.” He clung to Aman, as if Aman was supporting him and not the other way around. “Goddess, you're bleeding."

  "Enough with Goddess already.” Aman watched red drops fall from his fingertips. His left arm was numb, but that wouldn't last.

  "Why? What in the ... what the hell is going on here?” His fingers dug into Aman's arm.

  "Thank you.” Hell was about right. “We need to get out of here. Do you know the neighborhood?"

  "Yes. Sort of. This way.” Daren started through the grapes his arm around Aman. “I'm supposed to meet ... a ride. This afternoon. A ride to...” He gave Aman a sideways, worried look. “Another place."

  "You're gonna have to learn some things...” Aman had to catch his breath. “Or you're gonna bring the suits right after you.” After that he stopped talking. The numbness was wearing off. Once, years and years ago, he had worked as private security, licensed for lethal force, paying his way though school. A burglar shot him one night.

  It hurt worse than he remembered, like white hot spears digging into his shoulder and side with every step. He disconnected himself from his body after awhile, let it deal with the pain. He wondered about Jimi's cat. Who would take care of it? Raul would be pissed, he thought dreamily. Not about Jimi. Raul had no trouble finding Jimis in the world. But Aman was a lot better than Raul. Better even than An Xuyen, although Xuyen didn't think so. Raul would be pissed.

  He blinked back to the world of hot afternoon and found himself sitting in dim light, his back against something solid.

  "Man you were out on your feet.” The kid squatted beside him, streaked with sweat, drying blood, and gray dust, his face gaunt with exhaustion and fear. Daren, not Jimi. Jimi was dead.

  "I don't have any first aid stuff, but it doesn't look like you're bleeding too much anymore. Water?” He handed Aman a plastic bottle. “It's okay. It's from a clean spring.

  Aman didn't really care, would have drunk from a puddle. The ruins of an old house surrounded them. The front had fallen—or been torn—completely off, but a thick curtain of kudzu vine shrouded the space. Old campfire scars blackened the rotting wooden floor. The belt, he figured. Edge of it anyway.

  "What happened?” Daren's voice trembled. “Why did he shoot Jimi? Who was he? Who are you?"

  The water helped. “What sent you to get hacked?” Aman asked.

  "Someone searched my apartment.” The kid looked away. “I found ... a bug in my car. I'm ... good at finding those. I ... told some of my ... friends ... and they said go invisible. It didn't matter if I'd done anything or not. They were right.” His voice trembled. “I'd never do what they said I did."

  "They know you didn't do anything.” Aman closed his eyes and leaned back against the broken plasterboard of the ruined wall. Pain thudded through his shoulder with every beat of his heart. “It's the guy who killed your girlfriend."

  "Why? I never hurt him. I never even found him..."

  "You looked for him,” Aman mumbled. “That scared ‘em."

  The kid's blank silence forced his eyes open.

  "I'm guessing the local government is running a little ... drug eradication program be eliminating the market,” he said heavily. Explaining to a child. “They cut a deal with the street connections and probably handed them a shipment of ... altered ... stuff to put into the pipeline. Sudden big drop in users."

  "Poisoned?” Daren whispered. “On purpose?"

  "Nasty, huh? Election coming up. Numbers count. And who looks twice at an OD in a confirmed user?” Aman kept seeing Jimi's childlike curl on the couch, the cat regarding him patiently. Couldn't make it go away. “Maybe they thought you had proof. Maybe they figured you'd guess and tell your ... friends. They might make it public.” He started to shrug ... sucked in a quick breath. Mistake. Waited for the world to steady again. “I should have guessed ... the suit wo
uld know about Jimi. Would be tailing him.” That was why the long look in the office. Memory impression so the suit could spot him in a crowd. “I figured it out just too late.” His fault, Jimi's death. “How soon are your people going to pick you up?"

  "Soon. I think.” The kid was staring at the ground, looked up suddenly. “How come you came after me? To arrest me?"

  "Listen.” Aman pushed himself straighter, gritted his teeth until the pain eased a bit. “I told you you're leaving a trail like a neon sign. You listen hard. You got to think about what you buy ... food, clothes, toothpaste, okay?” He stared into the kid's uncomprehending face, willing him to get it. “It's all tagged, even if they say it's not. Don't doubt it. I'm telling you truth here, okay?"

  The kid closed his mouth, nodded.

  "You don't buy exactly the opposite—that's a trail we can follow, too—but you buy random. Maybe vegan stuff this time, maybe a pair of synth-leather pants off the rack at a big chain next purchase. Something you'd never spend cash on. Not even before you became a Gaiist, got it? You think about what you really want to buy. The food. The clothes. The snacks, toys, services. And you only buy them every fifth purchase, then every fourth, then every seventh. Got it? Random. You do that, buy stuff you don't want, randomly, and without a chip, you won't make a clear track. You'll be so far down on the profile that the searcher won't take you seriously.

  "I've been buying in the belt,” the kid protested.

  "Doesn't matter.” He had explained why to Jimi. Couldn't do it again. Didn't have the strength. Let his eyes droop closed.

  "Hey.” The kid's voice came to him from a long way away. “I got to know. How come you came after me? To tell me how to hide from you? You really want me to believe that?"