by Curtis Hox
Frankie chomped on a hotdog loaded with relish, still reeling from his wakeup. All Hark had explained was that Frankie’s memories would soon start to fade, up to the point he’d truly begun living.
Hark feared that wasn’t much earlier than a few hours ago. Hark hadn’t told him yet that he was a constructed person meant to be a supporting character in a drama taking place around him—something about to happen soon. But he would soon enough.
An oblivious Celia stood tight-lipped, brim of her hat pulled down by her shawl, hiding behind her sunglasses. Hark had spent the last ten minutes convincing her to go upstairs to the hotel room. Celia was well known enough that a few people stopped for signatures and one picture. Hark eventually began glaring, and people gave a wide berth. Binda was inside, perusing haute couture in a small boutique in the lobby, waiting for the rest of them.
Hark tapped Frankie on the shoulder. “I’ve had enough of this. Take Celia upstairs. Tell Binda to go with you guys.”
Frankie nodded obediently, but paused.
“What is it?” Hark asked.
“What’s going on, sir? I can’t remember anything prior to my tenth birthday.”
“You’re a big help. That’s what’s going on.”
Hark glanced at the hotel. The Hiku was Times Square’s most exclusive hotel that catered to entertainment types. Celia would fit in—even though her regular suite at the Four Seasons was where she wanted to be. At least here, they didn’t know her. Hark had already plopped down enough cash for a room for a week. He’d surveyed the suite upstairs. Fifth floor, just above a fancy restaurant with a great view.
“Get her up there, Frankie, and I’ll explain it to you later.”
He watched a befuddled Frankie lead Celia into the hotel.
When Hark turned back toward the sea of people on the sidewalk, he saw another specialist, Caleb Paratore, crossing a street.
Hark triggered his slow-down mode. It didn’t actually slow time, of course, but his brain did the opposite: it jumped into an over-clock mode that made him a compounded genius in a nanosecond.
Caleb stood there looking like a buff model on his way to the gym. He’d immerse in similar casual gear to what Hark had worn upon immersing. He didn’t have a kit, which meant he’d just arrived.
“You know why you’re here?” Hark asked.
Caleb stopped a few feet away and glanced at a film poster glued to a barrier wall hiding construction behind it: a man that looked just like Hark running down a street, a title underneath that read Kill Harken Cole.
“Clever,” Hark said. “That for you?”
“A nice touch,” Caleb said. “I just woke up in a cab a few minutes ago. He let me out here. I’m walking with a single objective, Hark. I’m also walking with my full memory. That clue’s just a reminder.”
“So you ain’t staying long?”
“We’ll be done soon enough, I guess.”
Caleb’s polite behavior couldn’t be faulted. He’d been an accomplished specialist for years. Caleb was a company man, though, and the tension between their different approaches had turned into rivalry a few years ago when Hark learned what Caleb thought about him.
Hark had never wanted to have to run him down inside, and certainly didn’t want to be chased. They’d never been paired as opposites in a Rend-V. And here he was, standing on a corner, bearing the gift of conversation, before he tried to take Hark out.
“We got riders?” Hark asked, wondering how many people were jumping in to ride along with him and experience what he was about to experience.
“You’re little stunt, as well as a few others, just pushed Collides to the top. The bosses are torn. Revenue’s up. When I immersed, a gaggle of viewers were following you around. Already, three top-tier payers are riding along with you as we speak.”
“I bet the bosses do like the ratings.”
“Beside the point.” A few beats of silence between them meant Caleb was preparing. Hark felt all his systems ramp up to optimal. “You still in the dark, Hark?”
“I seen a few clues. You here to add some spice, then let me go, or to take me back?”
“What do you think?”
They both nodded. “So we tango ’til the lights go out. How about some information, before we do?”
“Here’s what I can tell you,” Caleb said. “It won’t make a difference and won’t scramble your brains when you wake up. Word in the halls of EA: a month ago you met a woman who asked you to do something. You thought coming in here illegally could help her. You weren’t that discreet about keeping it a secret.”
The Promise.
“Do what?”
“If I tell you and you win, your wires get crossed. That’s vital info. Your neural net needs that space clean.”
“Right.”
“It’s gotta be this way.”
“I take you out, Caleb, you’re off the roster for at least six months for major cogno-therapy. You know how it goes. Death inside is no joke, especially for us. You’ve immersed too many times. Dying in-V could mess you up for life, Caleb.”
“You really think you can win?”
Caleb looked young, but he was older than Hark by decades. He was also good, but he had a weakness: he didn’t care as much. Whatever brought Hark here had to be important, especially for them to send Caleb. But, Hark had come all on his own.
“Yeah?” Hark asked, knowing Caleb wouldn’t back down. “We doing this?”
“I got a trump card, Hark. You know how it goes. For emergencies, they give you something special.”
“Shame, these are new clothes.”
“It doesn’t have to be the hard way.” Caleb nodded with the kind of sincerity that meant he genuinely wanted to avoid the fight. “Use your parachute.”
Caleb obviously wanted Hark to wake up secure and healthy in an immersion clinic. Every specialist who had gone as deep as many times as Hark and Caleb had specially made parachutes. Like the Han Solo alarm clock object that had woken up Frankie, Hark simply needed to look around until he found … he saw a curio shop across the street that looked like it sold every type of NYC kitsch imaginable.
In the store window under a Lego Statue of Liberty were two souvenir books of the city. Next to them, as out of place as can be, was a large coffee-table book with Hark on the cover. Hark never looked for his parachute, had never used one, and didn’t plan to now. All he had to do was open it, begin reading, and he’d wake up in the hive apartment they were using, his mind no worse for wear since he hadn’t been in long.
“I can’t do that.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
Caleb punched a vicious jab forward, an energized spike lancing from his fist.
Hark hadn’t seen that sneak attack before but ducked in time, his energy carapace sizzling from close proximity.
The scene around Hark blurred into a still picture as every bit of his working mind switched into a highly sensitive spatial ratiocination mode: He just tried to punch a hole in my defense. He failed. My counter attack is … Hark retreated with an oblique dive. He didn’t feel the hard sidewalk, his reactive Skinsuit cushioning the blow even as his jacket shredded.
Hark swung a wide, scythe-like stroke from a backhand that just missed Caleb’s head.
The world around him froze as he focused on Caleb’s moving figure.
They’ll die, Hark, he imagined Magdalena saying. That family of three who sounds like they’re from France. The father has his camera out. He’s taking a picture of his wife and daughter. If either of you cause an explosion, everyone on this corner is toast.
Caleb must have been thinking the same thing. To avoid a catastrophe, he bore down on Hark like a conquering hero with twin indigo energy spears snaking along both of his arms.
This is new. This is unexpected. He’s showing his hand early. He doesn’t think I have anything. He thinks I’m weak. Yes, he thinks I’m weak. I can handle it. I can take the blow. I can—
Hark felt the impact
of the strike on his energy carapace as if an uprooted tree trunk had slammed into him.
Without Magdalena, he couldn’t modulate a dynamic defensive posture, and Caleb’s attack smashed through his carapace into his reactive armor.
His Skinsuit did its best to deflect the force. Hark heard the reverberation explosion.
A man selling hotdogs shrieked and abandoned his cart, while two Nigerians with open brief cases full of fake designer watches both fell into the gutter.
Hark felt the heat sink into his torso. Autonomic painkillers released from synth glands.
The psychology of violence. I know this well. I have taught this course. I am one with the truth. The pain is gone. The damage can be repaired. What I am in this moment will define me. I am unwilling to lose. I am … Hark dove for Caleb’s legs in the most unexpected posture imaginable: a double-leg take down.
His carapace negated his opponent’s. And they tumbled into the street. Cars careened around them. The sound of honking was a faraway thing.
Hark felt the rest of his clothes burn away, the smell of singed cloth in his nostrils. He smelled heated engine oil on the asphalt, the slick material of the old world coating him in grime.
Caleb, a master of distance.
Hark, a master of … he opened his mouth and extended a series of electric teeth that he clamped down on his colleague’s neck. He felt Caleb punching holes into his back, his reactive armor unable to withstand the attack. But Caleb had used up his energy. And Hark bit down harder.
In the last moment, before he felt the body beneath him die, he saw the familiar light in a specialist’s eyes blank.
Caleb had an insurance policy.
The hackers yanked him before the moment of death.
Somehow Hark stood. He couldn’t feel much, not at this point. His HUD was off, all AbSys energy having been expended. His involuntary systems were keeping him upright. He knew his blood pressure was dropping. One lung was about to collapse. One heart was palpitating, the other working fine. His anti-shock mechanisms were struggling to keep him from passing out. Without Magdalena …
“Worth the price of admission?” he said to the crowd, gasping, smiling as best he could. He wanted to take a bow, but had to hold himself up with all his might.
He glanced down, and already Caleb’s body was gone.
Just like that. And poof, no evidence.
A few sturdy NYPD in their blues and police caps appeared.
Hark had already stumbled back to the sidewalk. People were helping the hotdog guy get his cart back up. The cordon of tourists who gawked was all talking about what they’d seen. He heard more than one person wonder where the other guy had gone.
“Do you need medical assistance, sir?” one officer asked.
“I’m good.” He steadied his breathing to not look desperate.
“Causing problems?” another said. “Let me look at you.”
Hark stood there in his Skinsuit, now fully reactive with armored parts in key areas from his chest, shoulders, elbows, knees, along the kidneys and abs. He looked like a futuristic superhero. He posed, hands on hips, and smiled. Already, his armor was mending the rent areas.
“Guerrilla marketing, guys,” Hark said, feeling his left lung collapse. Still he smiled. He grunted like a hog and pretended that was part of the show. With a wheezing breath, he said, “New film. Street performance. I’m done, though. I’ll move along.”
“You do that, buddy. Get a license next time.”
Hark had charmed harder cases than those two. He turned, tunnel vision threatening, a weight like a stone in his chest. All sound was disappearing as he walked stiff-legged into the hotel. Every system in his body was working overtime to keep him upright. The journey from the lobby to the hotel room could have taken thirty seconds or thirty minutes. He had no idea. He just remembered Binda opening the hotel room door. Somehow Frankie was already helping him into a room on the other end of the suite.
Hark crashed to the floor.
“Lock the door,” he said. “Order me … room service. In the mood for a … cheeseburger.” Hark lay belly down on the floor, his face in the carpet. “Frankie, come here.”
“Really?” Frankie bent down. “A cheeseburger?”
“Kidding …”
Hark grabbed his shirt, pulling him to all fours. He stuck his hand inside and turned on the embedded phone.
“Oh, snap,” Frankie said as Hark’s hand fell. “This is going to be good.”
Hark passed out to the sound of Frankie jabbering.
16
Hark’s eyes were finally focusing. He stared at the ceiling. His fingers reached across his body. He was still wearing his Skinsuit. Of course he was. They wouldn’t know how to get it off him. He felt the rippling of the armor still repairing itself just as the heat from his body meant the nanoengines inside were healing him. He inhaled deeply. Already, his damaged lung was working. The broken ribs were mending.
That was close.
He lay on a bed with a mauve bedspread in a side room of the suite. He sat up and groaned, hands to face, feeling heat blisters that scabbed his cheeks and forehead. The world swirled around him. He bit his bottom lip to keep from passing out. I need a few more hours for those to heal, he thought. At least they sent me here with my complete physio package.
Binda appeared in the doorway. She still wore the same clothes. Must be the same day, he realized.
“You okay?” she asked. “You look like you’ve been run over.”
“Where’s Frankie?”
“Behind you, where you left him in the corner. Smiling like an idiot.”
“Bring him to me.” She led forward a catatonic but happy Frankie. He stood rigid, like a statue, eyes glazed. Hark said, “Direct access. Oh wait. Move his arms …”
“What?” Binda asked.
“Stick his arms out.”
She adjusted his arms, and they moved on their own.
Hark white-knuckled the bedspread with both hands to steady himself like a drunk about to pass out. “Direct access. Give me data on … how many … how many viewers for Collides.”
“Two hundred and seventy one thousand new viewers since this afternoon,” Frankie said in his proxy voice.
“No way,” Binda said. “He’s a terminal.”
Hark raised a hand. “Proxy, actually. That phone’s too weak for him to be a real terminal. He likes it.”
“He does?”
“You want to try?”
She nodded vigorously. “Definitely.”
“Maybe later. We’re slamming the ratings by now.”
Binda’s eyes widened. “Big show?”
“You got your audience.”
She clapped. “We’re breaking versim rules talking about it.”
“Doesn’t matter at this point. Something’s going on that sent me off the rails. Frankie is involved. You’re involved. EA tried to take me out in narrative. I’m illegal, so they can’t pull my plug. My bet, my sister pushed you two to me.”
“Like I said, it was an anonymous message.”
“Sounds like Krista.”
“Ask about riders.”
Hark grinned at her. “Sure.” To Frankie he said, “Access rider count for secondary character Binda Avey.”
“Forty two riders.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. “Forty two!”
“They’re paying big bucks to experience what you’re experiencing, Binda. Make it worth their while.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t need those numbers. Even if no one was riding, I’d give it my all.”
“I know. We all know.”
He watched her flash her best, I’m-Sexy grin, and he smiled back even though his head pounded and the heat damage in his torso still made him feel like burnt meat. All his AbSys energy was fueling his soma therapy, which meant it felt like he had an electric brick vibrating in his gut. His HUD simply displayed a single alert that his systems were in critical shutdown mode.
>
Still, he stood. Normally he’d chat her up a little because she was cute and his type by the look of her (the riders would be clamoring for it) but this was serious business, the sort of business that only came once a year. He could be cavalier with himself any other time but when he was doing his duty to an old buddy who’d asked him to take care of his son, he had to limit the charm.
Hark nudged Frankie closer. “Direct Access: The Borderlands.”
“Oh, I got to see this.” Binda moved in close.
Hark glanced at a bare wall in the room, it’s only decoration a single square in the middle. “Turn on.” Without a projector, the wall lit up in white light. To Frankie he said, “Project.”
A wide, establishing shot appeared on the wall as if backlit of rolling hills in such a bright green that it hurt his eyes.
Hark’s breath caught in his throat when he saw where he and his friend Paul Stammand had ridden into danger as free-wheeling sheriff Buster Boggins and his rascal companion Roy’s Jones. He’d spent almost three years in the low-budget Rend-V. It was a cult favorite now. Its numbers were nowhere near the big ones. But it had a special flavor, even though its principals were gone, that meant its fan base kept paying to return.
“Jump to Roy’s house.”
His access control as a principal allowed him to go anywhere he wanted. The direct jump to Roy’s cottage always caught him by surprise. It was a rough-cut timber home with beige stucco Roy’s wife kept painted every year. A hog pen out back ran up against a hay and horse barn. The corral was on the other side, as was the chicken coop, the dairy cow barn, and the vegetable gardens.
He expected to see Paul Stammand’s real-born son, Saul, rounding a corner, maybe carrying a bundle of sticks, maybe tender for the cast-iron kettle inside the home. He waited but Saul was nowhere to be seen, a grown boy, now, of ten. He had his father’s blue eyes and blond hair, and he had his own humble fan club supporting this interesting character without proper legal personhood.
