But not before he agreed to her request for haven, which was her chief purpose in being here. Right? She wasn’t here just because no one in her government realized this arcology was inhabited. Not because she was pretty sure that bomb had been meant for her. Not even because the arcology was isolated in the desert and off-grid—except for that strange half-man in the conference room, his trusted team, and the horde of psychologically traumatized refugees.
And not even one teensy bit because somewhere in this gigantic building, Kellen existed. Not in mere memory this time; really, physically, actually here.
Close enough to touch.
• • •
“No messages?” The bed in Angela’s room/prison was humongous, and the vestigial kid in her wanted to starfish out in the deliciously soft synthcotton…and scream.
Or climb the tastefully beige walls.
Or gnaw a hole in the goddamn locked door.
When she’d gotten to her room, she’d immediately run through the urgent stuff like a shower and a power nap, but that had taken, what, an hour total? She’d been here for twenty-eight of the fuckers—with the entire information universe behind a firewall and inaccessible to her. No visitors. No lines of communication. No news. No authority.
She needed answers. She needed information. She needed a new plan.
“No, no messages. But you haven’t reached out to anyone, either,” mech-Daniel reminded her in a voice without judgment, “as we are, in your words, hiding.”
What he said was true. She hadn’t sent any messages since that last note to Farad, requesting haven. Her plan had been to monitor incoming communiqués and see who was concerned for her safety, who was looking for her, who suspected she was dead, and who acted like they already had proof.
If she could get enough data points together, she could construct a picture of what just happened. She could verify that she had in fact been the target, figure out who’d launched the attack, and then systematically destroy that person or group.
If information gathering was the key to her plan, patience was the flaw in it. Angela wasn’t good at patience.
And the whole mess was compounded by her choice of hideout. She hadn’t counted on the Pentarc’s firewall. Apparently Heron Farad kept his secret kingdom off-grid by making it a closed system that only allowed data transfers from the cloud every few hours, and even then, all data packets filtered through his rigorous scrubbing. If someone did try and contact her, she’d have to wait for the next information window to get the message, so there was no way she could track when alerts came in and line that timing up against gossip news speculation about her fate. What she needed was that damn firewall to go away.
Impatience had long since turned to frustration.
Mech-Daniel stood sentry, hands clasped behind his back and gaze looking out the plasteel window of the seventh-floor living unit they’d been assigned to. The recent scar on his face had all but disappeared beneath the wound glue, but Angela could still see it.
“I perceive that you are anxious,” he said.
Angela started. Those words echoed Farad’s weird mind-reading trick a little too closely. “Humans who’ve been recent assassination targets often are, I’m told.”
Mech-Daniel turned to her, away from the window. His bearing was still mechanically stiff, but his face was relaxed, set in its usual wide-open expression. “Also hungry?”
She hadn’t thought about hunger since scarfing two protein bars right after her shower. Yesterday. “Yeah.”
He flashed a smile and scurried to the galley kitchenette near the unit’s front door. It always felt strange to watch a six foot six, human-shaped creature scurry, but she wasn’t sure what other word she could use to describe the way mech-Daniel moved when he was following up on one of his ideas. When he was trying to please her.
When he’d first come into her service, she’d been constantly weirded out by him. So much of what he said and did was just flat wrong. But after two years of constant companionship, she was used to him.
It was the whole-organic humans who freaked her shit out now.
“Savory or sweet?” he called from the kitchenette.
Farad or Fanaida or somebody—Kellen? No, probably not, but it could have been and would be so like him—had thoughtfully stocked the kitchenette with a box of full-spectrum-nutrition ration patties. Angela had endured this brand of rations before, and personally, she thought the lumps of vaguely brownish material tasted like a cross between toenail clippings and Styrofoam, depending on whether you chose the extra-crunchy or smooth variety. If you went smooth, they were pure, unadulterated cardboard. Both textures came with a healthy dusting of either sugar or salt. Hence mech-Daniel’s all-important question.
“Sweet,” she called back. If other people had been around to see, she would have gone with savory. Rosemary and truffle were the latest fad flavors. But Angela had a secret weakness for all things sweet, and indulging this once, when no one was watching, wouldn’t damage her brand.
Several cabinet squeaks and crockery clanks later, mech-Daniel emerged with a ceramic bowl full of steaming fake-sugar-drenched kibble-soak. He wore an acres-wide grin of goofiness.
Angela perched crisscross-applesauce on the edge of the giant bed, balancing the hot bowl on her heels, and dug in with a disposable biodegradable spoon, also sweetened. She tucked conversation in between bites. “I’m thinking about queuing up a message for Zeke, at least. He knows we survived the attack, so talking to him won’t ruin our hide-out-and-watch plan.”
“You may dictate one, and I will apply for permission to establish a link during the next window,” mech-Daniel said in a disapproving (condescending?) tone that made both her middle fingers twitch.
“And while you’re at it, see what you can do about my analytics feed. I want to know what new horror is trending, how Zeke’s polling with eight days left before the election, and of course, what the vids and gossips are saying about me.”
Had Zeke reported her missing? Or was this a standard undisclosed-location narrative while the federales tracked down the attacker? How was the government PR machine spinning this?
“Processing,” mech-Daniel replied, holding up one finger. “I am in queue to form a live connection beyond this closed communication system during the next window. Oh, look! We have two new episodes of Cash Cow. Apparently one comes in with every window. Shall I route those to your internal com?”
It wasn’t information, and it wasn’t connection, but at least it would distract her for a couple of hours. “Yep. Do it.”
“As you wish.” He said that a lot, at least fifty times a day, but his digital voice had a different tone just then. “If I may ask, how is your shoulder?”
Angela rolled the shoulder in question, the one the wall had taken out back at the Riu. It still ached, but deep. Dull. “Lots better,” she lied.
“I can give you something for the pain.”
It was on the tips of Angela’s teeth to say no, she could power through this on her own. The pain wasn’t bad, and all her bones and sockets were back in their right places, thanks to mech-Daniel’s howl-inducing yankage back in the refrescando.
But he was right. The chems she’d injected at the all-night pharma had done a spectacular job of pain management, but they were now wearing off. Even the best stims didn’t last much more than a day.
She set her empty bowl on the duvet. “Hit me.”
He nodded and approached the rear of the lone seat in the room, a wide synthetic-skinned armchair that was both shabby and indecisively brown/gray. He motioned toward it. Angela went over to the chair and sat.
She couldn’t get a read on this building, half crumbling and ramshackle, half ultra posh with hot running water, which couldn’t have been cheap out here in the climatic hellhole of the southwest desert. Even in disrepair, a structure like this had to have co
st a pretty penny. How did Kellen’s group of outlaws fit into the global financial matrix? Were they leasing? Squatting? Uncovering the financials would tell her a lot about the people who had agreed to keep her safe. Of course, there was no way she could find out any of that without a single goddamn feed. Argh.
At her back, mech-Daniel arched over her, removed her hairpiece, and placed his long, cold hands on either side of her head. The tips of his middle fingers loomed large in her periphery, overreaching her temples. When the sense-ports in his hands connected with the diodes screwed into her skull, she tasted metal.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax. She knew this didn’t hurt, but her body still innately protested.
“I will adjust your nerve settings,” he told her. “Initially, this may affect how certain tastes and smells register, but please do let me know if you experience any unusual side effects.”
Angela smiled. “Oh, you mean that extra arm growing out of my back?”
“You are teasing me.” She could hear the reflected smile in his calibrated-to-human voice.
“No, you’re right. Humor bad,” she said. But he’d reminded her of something else. “Hey, after you’re done with this, we need to talk about tweaking your Daniel routine.”
“We can talk now. I am capable of multitasking. What tweaks would you like to make?”
Liking this really had nothing to do with it. “When we were at the gala, your sim was good. Maybe too good. Too good of a person, I mean. You were a believable analog for a human husband, but you weren’t Daniel.”
He paused for a moment, though his hands remained steady clamps on her head, feeding instructions to her peripheral nervous system. “How shall I modify my routines to better imitate Daniel Neko?”
Hurt me. Every chance you get. “Try reviewing archival footage, record some of his mannerisms. Old vids ought to be available here. He used to…do this hey-girl smirk that really got his fan legions going. Also, use more verb contractions. And a somewhat looser walk.” She wasn’t doing a very good job of describing the nuances, but that was Daniel in summary: a wad of nuances crammed into a brittle, bitter shell.
“A…hey-girl smirk?”
“When you review the footage, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The subdermal tickle on her scalp and the taste of metal in her mouth ebbed. “I’ve reviewed the footage,” he said. “I’m Daniel if you want me to be.”
Yeah, they were a program tweak confirmation, but those words klaxoned in her chest. Or maybe her body just reflexively cringed at having its electrical system invaded and manipulated.
No, she didn’t want him to be Daniel. But with the real Daniel gone now, she needed the imposter to be believable. Even if his imitation made her want to vomit.
At least here in the Pentarc she’d have some privacy while she got used to being near almost-Daniel.
“Great,” she said, feeling anything but. “Go ahead and keep that behavior suite loaded perpetually. No turning it off. You know what I’m saying?”
“You want me to…kill Dan-Dan?”
What a fonky way of phrasing it. “Just archive the program suite. I’d like to keep a back door available in case I need it, but generally, yeah, you can kill him.”
The diodes cooled, and the cringe dulled. The pain in her shoulder winked out of existence. Poof, like magic. She started to turn, to thank him face-to-face, but she couldn’t move her head. His hands still clamped it in place.
Then low, softest whisper: “It’s done.”
Something had just happened. A weighty something. A mechanical hiccup, seismic only to him, perhaps. Mech-Daniel had always been something of a mystery to her, coming into her life and replacing all her personal digital assistants and drone bodyguards. Hell, he’d nearly replaced her style team. In two short years, he had made himself indispensable. And she’d just told him to kill himself.
She tilted her head, pillowing it into the cool clasp of his hands. I’m sorry rose to her mouth, but she hadn’t gotten the words out before her com vibrated. Low vibration; only she would feel it. She tapped her molars together, a percussive pattern in response.
A voice invaded her head, a burst of digital input that her com translated into phonemes, routed past her cochlea, and fed directly to her brain. It registered as both female and…perky.
“Finally! Hey, tell your parental unit you need to go to the bathroom,” said the voice.
What?
“The large mech-clone currently nut-cracking your skull? We can’t talk when he’s watching. So tell Daddy you need to go potty all by yourself this time, like a big girl.”
Angela wondered if there was a com algorithm for annoying, because she was sure feeling it from her unidentified caller. Still, she had been bored and frustrated two minutes ago. At least the voice was diverting. Plus, its owner might have information she was seeking.
Aloud, she excused herself, telling mech-Daniel she was going to indulge. “You can hibernate for a little while,” she said. “Nothing in the shower stall is likely to attack me, and I want to spend some quality time with that hot water.”
He started to protest, but she rephrased as a command, and he obediently positioned himself by the door and powered down.
“Okay,” Angela said to the voice, out loud now mech-Daniel wasn’t listening. “Who the hell are you?”
Maybe she could have used a nice long sleep after all, because clearly, she was making stuff up out of thin air. Literally. The empty space in front of her sizzled, broke apart, and reformed. In the shape of a girl. Pretty girl, blond, curvy, maybe eighteen years old, barely old enough to vote and way too young to think.
The blond grinned and raised one holographic hand in greeting. “Okay, the way I see it, you aren’t here, and I also am not supposed to be here. It’s like we’re cosmically meant to be pals. Bitches. Friends! Wanna go exploring?”
Angela repeated her original question.
“Oh fine.” The hologram exhaled, blowing its hair fringe out of its eyes in a caricature of exasperation. “My name is Chloe. I’m a sentient nanorobotic collective, highly illegal and dangerous, and if you tell anybody I exist, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you. But in the meantime, welcome to the Pentarc!”
“Why did I have to hibernate mech-Daniel?”
“Because he’s obsessed with rules and processes and would try to convince you to ignore me. Also, he’s N series, a certified Vallejo bot, which means his core programming defaults to asshole.”
“He is a machine, not an asshole.”
Chloe shrugged. “Believe what you want. But about my original offer: what say we go get ourselves into trouble?”
A thrill of potentiality played Angela’s spine like an electric banjo. “How do you propose to do that?”
“Lots of ways. I’ve made a list. Let’s see, we could break into the underground gem vault on West and see what the Noor-ol-Ain tiara looks like on your head—oh, after you put the wig back on. You’re lots prettier with it on.”
Angela also itched to reattach her hairpiece, but she was too fascinated right now to do anything other than stare down the chatty hologram. Er, nanorobotic collective wassit. Whatever you called it, it was definitely the most interesting thing Angela had encountered since she’d been here. “Then what?”
“Zipline between building spires?”
“Not happening. We fall, you dissolve into holographic glitter while I plummet fifty meters and splat.”
“Oh right. Physical permanence.” Chloe looked off to the right and for a moment assumed the same expression mech-Daniel did when he was ticking things off a to-do list. “Did you know that only this spire and the east one are refurbished? Northy’s a ruin, but you can still clamber all over it. Super creepy. You’ll love it.”
Angela had toured her share of ruins. Washington, DC, topp
ed her creepy list and probably always would. “I’ll pass.”
“We could visit the prisoner in the dungeon.” Chloe waggled her eyebrows. “He’s indecently pretty.”
Her face was just a little too animated. Trying too hard to seem real? She couldn’t really have a dungeon replete with prisoners. That part had to be made up.
“Do you live here at the Pentarc, Chloe?”
The hologram’s gaze shifted up and to the left. “Oh sure. I’m part of the team, part of the crew. Indispensable. Beloved.”
Wistful too, if Angela was reading the signals right. Hopeful. Excitable. Possibly delusional but definitely eager to please. In so many ways, this holographic intelligence reminded her of mech-Daniel. It was easy to trust. No, wait, she. She was easy to trust.
“Excellent. Then maybe you can help me,” said Angela.
“That’s what I do!”
Was it possible for a noncorporeal entity to bounce? She wasn’t bound to gravity, after all, and it was…weird.
“There’s some sort of firewall keeping me from getting messages in or out of here,” said Angela. “I need a way through it.”
Chloe’s face shifted to sad, but a kind of eerie comic-book interpretation of what sadness looked like. “I can’t. I don’t have admin access to the network. Only Heron and Kellen can poke holes in the firewall. Bummer.”
The words tumbled from Angela’s brain and out through her mouth before she could stop them. “Is Kellen here?”
Chloe paused a microsecond, then beamed. “Yup, up at the barn. Neither of us are supposed to go there. I’m not even supposed to be here.”
Angela shoved her feet into her pillow shoes, which had taken a beating on the climb out of the Riu but were far too comfy to trash. She snagged the hairpiece and fitted it onto her head, engaging the hooks to keep it from slipping. Thought about cosmetics, maybe some lip polish. Would that look too needy, too tarty?
Shall we fit our tongues to dialogues of business, love, or strife? She was about to see Kellen, to be with him in close physical proximity. Under such conditions, lip polish wouldn’t last long. Her body hummed in expectation of finishing their secret, flirtatious conversation.
Perfect Gravity Page 8
