Decimation Island

by Damien Boyes

  The last drone ping had the couple at a loading crane down the boardwalk, waiting next to a small cargo ship sitting low in the water, and I head straight there.

  With Lost Orleans free from SECNet’s ever-present eyes, Huggy and Zara probably think they’re running under the radar. They won’t expect anyone to be looking for them, and I’m not too worried about being spotted. I’m running the Gibson ID and this is a rented skyn, but I play it careful just the same. I’m just here to observe, not engage. I couldn’t do much more anyway, not with Deacon ready to take over the moment things get too exciting.

  I weave over the gently bobbing dock and head up the ramp to the boardwalk running along the top of the river wall. Vendors line the boardwalk, hawking live seafood and imported goods and street foods of every kind, with their stalls built directly into the structure to keep them from blowing away when the winds get too strong.

  The river is busy. Moored ships transfer cargo and more idle just off shore, waiting their turn to dock, while the heavier ships hauling cargo up to the Union port at Baton Rouge stick to the middle of the churning brown river. Downtown’s on my left, just inside the wall—all that’s left of it anyway. Only a few thousand people live there, but even from up here it’s obvious the place isn’t abandoned. Drones and bots are everywhere, and the market on Canal St. is doing a steady business. There’s life in this old city yet.

  A few hundred meters ahead a jazz quartet blasts brass at the guests arriving at the French Quarter resort. The wall is busiest there, but thankfully I don’t need to go that far. I only stroll about a hundred meters, walking like a tourist checking out the city, until I find Zara-Zee and her boyfriend right where Jace said they’d be: on the dock, posted up beside an aging cargo skiff.

  I step up to the railing and pretend to watch the river while I study them. They’re clearly reszo, and both armed, but so are most people around here. I probably should have rented a gun before I left Baton Rouge too.

  Zara-Zee’s skyn is closing in on two meters tall, and she stands with her shoulders back and her head straight. Her jawline is long and masculine and she’s got her long curly hair pulled into a high and tight ponytail. She’s poking at a tab in her hand and doesn’t look happy about what she’s seeing.

  HuggyJackson is shorter and a little more fidgety. His skyn is boyish, with soft blue eyes and smooth cheeks. He keeps checking out over the water, hand shading his eyes like he’s searching for something.

  The ship they’re next to looks well-tended, but rust spots are starting to show through the layers of blue paint. A green tarp on the deck is strapped down over something big, a large boxy octagon about four meters tall, and beside that three smooth metal cylinders are secured and waiting to be wrapped. I bet those are medpods, should be the stolen skyns. But there are only three. Where’s the fourth?

  Zara-Zee and HuggyJackson seem to be wondering the same thing. They’re impatient, fidgeting like they’ve been here a while. Every once in a while, Zara shoots an exasperated look at Huggy like he’s the reason they’re waiting, but only they can hear whatever it is they’re saying to each other.

  I’ve found them, but now what? I just came down here to prove that Anika was in on it with OVRshAdo and these two goons to steal the skyns, and now I’m sure of it. We’ve got their IDs, can tie them back to their gamer tags and to Anika meeting them in-game. I can go to Dub, it’ll have to be enough to trigger an investigation.

  Anika will lose her novi shot, but that’s on her, right? She’s mixed up in all of this, helped steal highly lethal biotech. She deserves the consequences, right?

  Right?

  I watch them for a few minutes, flexing my dark-skinned hands in the sun and rolling the muscles in my back while I let my mind wander. I don’t hop skyns much—I prefer to recognize my reflection when I catch sight of it—but I’ve spent enough time in loaner flesh and inhabiting virtual bodies that I’m not too hung up on my outward appearance anymore.

  Sure, I’ve grown attached to my face and I’m comfortable with how my skyn moves, but bodies are functional necessities at best. For lots of reszos the skyn they wear is nothing more than a facade, a relic of a time when people were trapped by the random chance of genetics.

  If I’m being honest with myself, this is what bugs me the most about the idea of moving forward with skynning Connie’s sprite. Even if I were to commission a skyn that looks exactly like I remember her, no matter how convincing the illusion is, I’ll still know there’s nothing underneath. I may not think about it for short stretches of time, but I’ll never be able to forget she isn’t real.

  And then there’s Anika… She’s a real-live woman, but she’s a fake too. Yeah, her appearance is fluid—she lives virtual and changes it all the time—but that’s to be expected. Underneath though, where I thought I’d met someone special, she’s just another phony. No matter how I may feel about her, there’s no denying she lied to me.

  Whatever the reason she got involved in this, she’s a product of her hidden desires and impulses, just like Connie is a product of her sub-routines and neural mimicry. Neither of them are real. They’re both projecting, showing the world a carefully constructed persona—so what does it matter if Connie isn’t “real”? At least I can trust her.

  Still, there’s a splinter of doubt in my mind, a plausible series of events that could explain away Anika’s participation in all this. Maybe it’s one giant circumstantial coincidence. And I can’t swear those cylinders contain the stolen skyns. I mean, what else would they be, but I don’t have actual proof.

  I need to see for myself, which means I need to get close. The question is how?

  Eventually someone comes off the boat, a woman with a dark tan, wearing dingy orange coveralls and her greying hair tied behind her head with a piece of yellow nylon rope. The way her jaw is set shows she’s impatient too. It’s loud out here, and with the chugging boats and the people and the jazz piping from the band playing at the French Quarter entrance, I only catch snippets of the conversation, but I get the gist. The boat’s ready to go, they’re already late and the window to meet their delivery deadline is closing, but Zara tells her to wait, they can’t leave until the last part of the shipment arrives. They don’t say it but it’s obvious what they’re waiting for—the fourth skyn.

  The captain shrugs and makes it clear she’s not to blame if they blow their schedule, then turns and pads back up the ramp and disappears belowdecks.

  If Huggy was agitated before, he’s morose now. He slinks over to Zara and stands in front of her, head bowed. If they’re talking I can’t hear it. At one point Huggy flinches, like he’s expecting Zara to hit him, but she just lays her hand on the back of his head, then turns and stalks away down the dock.

  Once she’s out of sight he spins around and kicks a piling, then instantly grabs his foot and hops in place, his mouth set in a pained grimace. He grumbles to himself for a bit, still balanced on one leg and rubbing his foot, then drops it, yells “Fuck!” at the sky, and plods off, nearly in tears, heading in the opposite direction from Zara, leaving the ship completely unattended.

  I wanted proof those were the stolen skyns in the medpods.

  Well, now’s my chance.

  GAGE, FINSBURY

  15:35:11 // 11-JUL-2059

  I keep my head on a swivel as I retrace my path along the wall, down the ramp, and over the dock to the cargo skiff. Once I get close I loiter around for a bit, waiting for Huggy or Zara to return or for a crew member to show themselves, but while the dock is busy, no one pays the skiff any attention, and no one says anything when I step across the gangplank and down to the ship’s deck. I skirt around to the front of the big octagon, keeping myself hidden should anyone glance out the bridge window. The tarp is pulled tight, and I can’t get through it to see what’s underneath, so I crouch down next to the cylinders instead. They’re smooth metal, probably faraday cages, shielded to keep the skyns’ trackers from pinging, and when I press my ear against th
e warm surface I can hear them humming. Right shape and size, no question they’re sealed medpods, but when I tap the control panel it prompts me for a password and I can’t get any further.

  I should find the captain, tell her what she’s got on board—but then again I bet she already knows, and if she doesn’t she’ll want to keep it that way. I can’t force her to stop, and I didn’t bring a weapon, so I can’t confront Huggy or Zara, and even if I did it’s two against one, and these two shoot people on the regular for fun.

  But I can’t just let them go, can I?

  HuggyJackson makes up my mind for me when he comes back and catches me bent over the cylinders.

  “Hey,” he yells at me from up on the dock. “What the hell are you doing?”

  I jerk up and turn to face him, not sure what to say. Deacon’s staying quiet, but that could change at any second.

  “I’m, uh…” Think of something. I set my face to clueless. “Is this the Big Easy booze cruise? I was told it was down here but I think I might be on the wrong boat.”

  Huggy’s eyes harden. “No it fucking isn’t.”

  “My mistake,” I say, stepping toward the gangplank to make my exit, but he blocks my path and crosses the plank to meet me.

  “Yeah it was,” he says, and for a second I think he’s going for his gun but instead he unsnaps the sheath on his belt and draws a long knife. “’Cause I am not buying your shit.”

  I take a step back and glance around for something to protect myself should he charge, but the captain keeps her deck tidy and there’s not much at hand. Nothing but a few buckets at the edge of the deck and a coil of heavy strapping waiting next to the cylinders.

  Huggy keeps advancing, knife held low.

  “We don’t need a problem,” I say, and risk a glance over my shoulder to the other side of the ship. I can always jump. I don’t fancy a swim, but it beats a stabbing.

  “Should have thought of that,” Huggy replies, flipping the knife up so he’s holding it in an overhand grip.

  He’s closing, backing me across the deck. I’m beside the last cylinder now, only have a few more steps before I’m up against the railing and have to vault over the edge, but I figure since I’m already caught, before I get wet I might as well see if I can get him to talk.

  “Okay,” I admit, “you got me, but you don’t think I’m about to let you float away with that stolen wetware, do you? You must know you’ve got every government agency in the hemisphere searching for you.”

  He tries to hide his reaction, but the way his mouth briefly drops is enough to tell me I wasn’t wrong about what’s in those cylinders.

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but we both know he’s lying.

  “Sure you do. You’re HuggyJackson, right? Or do you prefer I Elmer?” His eyes flicker when I mention his alias, but they go wide when I use his real name.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He stutters, but he’s stopped advancing.

  “That’s least of your worries right now, kid,” I say, playing confident. “We know everything. You and Zara-Zee and OVRshAdo and Anika, you’re done.”

  He backs off with his jaw clenched and doesn’t say anything, but the expression on his face is as good as a confession. Then his face flickers and his eyes harden. “You think you can take me in all by yourself?”

  I give him a smirk. “You don’t think I’d come down here on my own, do you?” I look over his shoulder and yell, “Converge, now!”

  Huggy spins away from me, searching for the direction of attack, and that’s when I move. I bend and grab the coil of rope next to me and heave it at his back. He turns just a second too late and the heavy coil catches him in the side, unraveling as it hits him. Following right behind, I grab his knife hand and step into him, knee him in the groin and use my other hand to snap his wrist and take his weapon.

  He stumbles away with a cry but with the rope coiled around his legs he can’t get far, and falls to his knees, tears running down his face. But he must shut down his pain receptors because he’s only dazed for a moment.

  Huggy fixes a glare on me. He’s done being stupid, and goes for the gun strapped to his hip.

  This gets Deacon interested. My eyes go unfocused as the governor in my kicks in, and I stagger, but I’m too far away to stop Huggy anyway. Without thinking, I pull my arm back and flick the knife at him, aiming just like I used to in my backyard when I was a kid. The blade twirls through the air, spinning end over end, and embeds itself in Huggy’s neck. Which is a lucky shot—I was aiming for his chest.

  His face wants to keep fighting but his head is no longer talking to his body. He gurgles as his knees buckle and collapses down into the rope. Shit, must have severed his spinal cord.

  His eyes stay open as I get up next to him, take his gun, and tuck it into my pants. There’s nothing left in his lungs to make noise with but his lips are still moving, breathlessly cursing me out.

  I glance up and down the dock, checking for witnesses. No one seems to have noticed, but that could change at any second. I need to get rid of the body before someone gets curious. Huggy’s cloudy eyes follow me as I wrap him in the heavy rope and fasten the steel clamps. His eyes go wide when he realizes what’s about to happen. His flesh is fading, but his Cortex won’t quit for a long time and his thoughts will keep right on ticking. I hesitate and reconsider what I’m about to do, but only for a second.

  After all, he was about to shoot me.

  And besides, he won’t lose any time. Probably. Eventually someone will fish his Cortex out of the river.

  I check the dock again, and Zara’s on her way back. A heavy drone’s out on the water, kicking up spray with a big metal cylinder slung underneath.

  Shit, gotta move.

  I get Huggy up, take two steps, and heave him over the edge. He hits with a heavy splash and I follow him in. I land on his chest and kick him down as I push off under water, letting the current carry me away from the skiff. I stay under as long as I can, then pull myself to the surface next to the metal hull of another long cargo ship further down the river, and gulp in a breath. There’s no sign of HuggyJackson. He must have stayed sunk and been swept away by the river.

  Treading water, I watch as the fourth skyn arrives and is lowered to the deck of the waiting skiff. I can’t see Zara from down here, but I’ll bet she’s up there directing the transfer. They’ll be shoving off within minutes. I need to stop them.

  But first I need to get out of the water.

  By the time I find a ladder and get back to the skiff, I’m already too late. The ship’s pulling away, already nosing out into the river. Zara’s standing at the railing, searching the docks—probably looking for her boyfriend. She didn’t spend any time waiting on him though, pushed right off the second the skyn was unloaded.

  Last chance before you lose them.

  I reach down to pull the gun I took from Huggy, but it’s not in my waistband. It must have slipped out when I jumped overboard and I didn’t notice. All I can do is take note of the ship’s name and registration number and watch it float away.

  The skyns are gone, but now I know for sure: Anika’s involved. No question about it, Huggy’s reaction when I confronted him was enough.

  So what am I gonna do about it?

  AniK@

  Post Game 4 Downtime

  Once again you find yourself alone in Camp Paradiso with Jefferson Wood, and while you’re starting to get used to these inter-game chit-chats, you still don’t like them.

  It’s not just the mindless interview either—you’ve always found something off about Wood. He’s too polished, pixel perfect. All at once self-effacing and superior. And the few minutes you’ve spent with him have done nothing to change your opinion.

  “We continue to be impressed by you, Anika,” the Wood says, cocking his head in appreciation. “You have managed to survive yet another difficult game. The world wants to know: how are you holding up?”

  You’re still fre
sh from the game, pumped from the fight, and if you were still in your body you’d be dizzy and breathing hard but already the excitement’s fading. So what if you just wasted an entire squad by yourself? All you’ve been through already and you’re still not halfway done. There’s still a long way to go and plenty of ways it could end.

  “One second at a time,” you reply, keeping your composure. “It’s all you can do out here.”

  “You seem to have considerable competition amongst your fellow survivors. OVRshAdo in particular.”

  “He’s a gamer,” you say. “Tryin’ to win like everyone else.”

  “As you say, and he has you to thank for his continued place in the game. Without you he would have surely been eliminated in the last round.”

  “We both would have. Working together was in our best interest.”

  “You make a potent team. Have your thought about formalizing it?”

  “No,” you say flatly. “I plan on killing him.”

  Wood’s lips part in a grin. “Spoken like a true warrior,” he says and gives you a little bow. “Until next round. We’ll be watching.”

  His voice fades away and once again the other survivors materialize around camp. You immediately head to your spot out at the end of the dock and lean down against the polished wooden railing to watch the orange sun sink into the ocean. It’s always the same time when you arrive, just before sundown, and so far your ritual has been to come out alone and watch the sky paint a picture while you wait for the next game to start. Other than that brief chat with OVRshAdo after game one, you haven’t spoken to any of the other survivors for more than a word or two and that’s the way you like it.

  The others stay inside, pouring drinks down their throats. It doesn’t matter how drunk they get here, the second the next game starts they’ll be instantly sober. Everyone’s talking about the ending—how you wiped a four-man to win the game. You took their congratulations as you walked through the covered dining area, but didn’t engage, and no one followed you.