by Curtis Hox
“We’ll help you, Dad,” Simone said.
“I know you will. You’ll still be there, I’m sorry to say. Your double has status now, and has demanded a joint contest.”
Yancey shook her head. “Why? Can’t we negotiate to avoid that?”
“We do it that way or they do it the other way.”
“Another incursion,” Rigon said.
“Right.”
The doors slid open again, and Nisson walked in with Hutto, his younger brother’s head in the crook of his arm, as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Holy shit on a stick!” Hutto said. “Another ghost!”
“I love this place,” Nisson said. “A real house of horrors. I fit right in.”
Coach Buzz walked toward them. “Close the door behind you, and keep your mouths shut.” Coach Buzz was the unofficial Gladmaster of the club, so he could talk like that. Nisson smirked, but did as he was told. Hutto, too.
“We’re all in this together,” her father said. He moved to Simone, a giant of a man next to her. She floated up, eye-to-eye with him. “Simone, I need to speak with you privately.” He put his arm around her, not touching but enough of a sensation she moved with him. He led her across the club and up into the steel joists that held the tin roof. Below them, everyone watched in silence, although they wouldn’t be able to listen. “Everyone in here is after the same thing, even Agent Nable. They want a world free of Rogues. Your mother, your brother, even Buzzal. I know those two Toth glad-fighters over there would pull the plug on the Rogues if they got half a chance.” He moved in close, almost nose-to-nose with her. “There’s one secret you should know. Let’s keep this between the two of us. If I lose, it won’t matter ... it’ll just buy us some time.”
“Why? How?”
“Because, honey, you possess the Protocols now. The encryption key has your imprimatur on it. I set them to become yours when you were a little girl. The moment you bound your entity, the Eternal Eminences observed the act, and transferred them to you. One day I’ll show you how to access them, but it’s no more difficult than presenting yourself to the Eminences. They’ll scan your genoscript. Each cell has the same imprimatur encoded in it. But I would hope you’d never change them without careful thought.” He tapped her shoulder, little flecks of blue light erupting. “Also, don’t tell anyone. Even your mother and brother don’t need to know. At least not yet.”
“I own them? What does that mean?”
“Here,” he reached his index finger toward her forehead. “This will only take a minute.”
She felt the contact, the familiar eruption, then a wash of clarity as if light flowed directly into her mind. It increased, building in tension, as if a freight train rumbled forward miles away, signaling itself through tiny vibrations on the tracks. She opened her mouth to speak, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. A few seconds later, the contact ended.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I just embedded an encryption key in your head so large it would take the combined computing power of every sentient being in the universe a trillion years to decrypt. The Rogues have been at cracking it for decades and haven’t made a dent. It’s what gives you access to the vaults protected by the Eternal Eminencies: where the Protocols are housed. ”
“How do I use it?”
“One day I’ll show you. One day.”
* * *
Skippard Wellborn waited for a moment to sneak away after Yancey started the day’s activities. He found an electrical outlet outside the Glad Club, around back. It was capped, but that didn’t matter. He dove in as would someone swan-diving into a pool. In seconds, his world became a rushing cavalcade of energy, like a living wind. He rode until he found Sterling’s Compsys room. Instead of hopping out of the current, he used a circuit to access Sterling’s computer systems. In seconds, he found a free digital pathway. The undifferentiated noise turned into a pattern of information of ones and zeros …
He followed the path through their systems into Cyberspace, leaving Realspace behind.
The moments could have been days as he swam through the data that constructed this digital world. A thousand ports into a thousand different arenas waited for him. He ignored all these, where hotjackers lived their alternate lives. He dove deeper than many Interfacers, and the farther he went the more his memory of an embodied existence disappeared.
He found a tiny exit in the bottom layers, like a pinhole in a great field that blankets the world. When he emerged, he stood on a dark plain. He imagined he still possessed a body, a necessary precaution, because the danger was losing yourself.
He began to walk; as he did, he imagined his feet grinding pebbles. He imagined hearing himself breathing deeply. He whistled, or told himself he whistled. This trick worked, and soon he looked down and saw his feet moving, saw his arms swinging.
In the distance he saw a blurring in the darkness.
The Eternal Eminences.
Skippard journeyed forward and eventually stood at the base of the first pyramid fortress. He couldn’t see the top or the entire base because it was so large. The sloping wall before him was made of a shiny obsidian-like stone. He had constructed this barrier to stop all intruders. Beyond it, each one connected in a line to another, the other fortresses protected the Protocols.
He knocked on the stone three times.
When he’d last visited, it had taken him a year’s time in Cyberspace to traverse all the pyramids. He had stood before each colossal Eminence and let them scan him. In the end, he had stood inside the last pyramid before a locked vault larger and thicker than any ever made in Realspace. He used the cipher encoded in his mind, opened it, and saw a small chamber like you’d find in a bank. Inside on a pedestal, a blood-red globe of data glowed. This contained the Protocols, all the rules that dictated how human and non-human intelligences could interact. He had blown his daughter’s genoscript imprimatur into the globe, a label on a series of numbers that strung together would circle the Earth twenty-seven times, and watched his own name disappear.
This ritual (known only to him and the SAIs he called the Eternal Eminencies) prescribed all the steps required to arrive at the Protocols. Her imprimatur, presented by her, would grant her access through the fortresses, where she could open the vault, and stand before the data orb. She now possessed the decryption cipher. Only her.
He snapped out of his reverie as two eyes appeared in the side of the massive structure. Both eyes were black globes.
“She has been told,” he said. “The cipher has been transferred.”
“We’ll create a path for her. But you must accompany her during her first trip.”
“I will. One day.”
“Until then, the Protocols cannot be accessed.”
“I know.”
As if a million gates all clanged shut at once, the universe of the Eternal Eminences shuttered.
Skippard smiled.
* * *
“Everybody, gather round,” Yancey said to the Alters.
Beasley sat on a bench, pretending to read a glad-fight magazine. Joss and Wally had just wandered in after lunch. Cliff and Coach Buzz were talking, while Tarean and Nisson conversed as well. Rigon sat quietly in the corner. Kimberlee stood by his side, as if waiting to run an errand for him. Simone had just said goodbye to her father after learning about his gift of the Protocols. She hung back and sulked for some reason Yancey didn’t have time to pursue.
“I have an announcement to make,” Yancey said.
“You’re going to change into your Bodyglove?” Hutto said.
Tarean slapped him upside the back of his head. “Boy, mind your elders.”
Nisson grinned, though, and Hutto grinned back. “Yeah, okay.”
“I have entered Simone, Beasley, and Hutto in an unsanctioned event,” Yancey said.
“Yes!” Hutto said and began shadow boxing.
“It’s this Friday night.”
“This Friday?” Beasley asked.
Simone floated over. “Why so soon?”
Tarean crossed his arms. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Her bosses know that training shouldn’t matter for the small-time events,” Nisson said. “This is bullshit. I mean, these Alters will devastate basic augments or Pitdogs or even real Rogueslaves on nanojuice. So, what gives?”
Yancey nodded. “That’s right, Nisson. They should be able to win without trouble.”
Beasley looked toward Coach Buzz. “But I have no idea how to control—”
Yancey raised a hand to silence her. She had their undivided attention. Even Rigon watched behind his shades. He was lit up with a massive amount of cyber activity, and he was sharing much of the data with her so that she could understand him without actual talk. She guessed he was here to make sure Cliff didn’t go off the rails but also to make sure she didn’t, and here she was about to justify how her radical bosses—who were often at odds with Rigon’s conservative ones—wanted the recruits tested right away.
She didn’t want to lie. “Beasley, you must face what is in you. Control will follow.” Simone moved forward, and Yancey sensed her daughter was about to interrupt. Yancey raised another warning hand. “I’m going to explain how you do this.” She saw Nisson turning away, pretending not to be interested. “It’s no different from training a puppy. It does what you want, it gets a treat. What it does is obey your commands, and it gets to be here in the flesh.” She clapped. “All my Alters in their calming positions.”
“More black magic,” Tarean said. He headed for the door in a hurry.
Nisson followed, glanced back like he might say something, but kept going.
The students moved into position: Wally, followed by Joss, Kimberlee, Beasley, Hutto, and Simone. They sat yoga style, except for Simone, who floated a few inches off the ground like a divine saint in combat boots.
“The idea is to choose one out of the many,” Yancey said.
While the others worked through the mantras, she waved Simone to her so that they could talk in private.
“They have it easy,” Simone said.
“No bargaining?”
Simone made her wait, but even Rigon, who now seemed to be watching, appeared interested. He could hear a mouse sneaking through a wall if he wanted.
“It was a good deal, Mom. I mean, I don’t have a body. So, I had to negotiate.”
“What did you promise, Simone?”
“I promised it free run.”
“You did?”
“I’ll do it in the woods. Dad said that’s a good one, to start. The forest is empty of people. So it can prance around and do its thing without scaring anyone. That’s what he said.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No way.”
“Simone, if that ... entity hurts someone ...”
“I know, Mom. The deal’s off if it does.”
“Don’t you have homework?”
“I’m behind, but I’ll catch up. I don’t have to sleep like you do.”
Yancey tried to hide the sting in her face. For all the problems being a ghost could cause someone, her husband preferred it. “I guess that’s not bad if that’s all it wants. Mine made me promise more summoning. Your father’s entities ...”
“What about them? He didn’t tell me.”
But Yancey refused to say and turned back to the others.
* * *
As each student calmed, Simone’s mother took them aside and showed them the steps that her father had shown her in front of Uncle Pic’s cabin. It was a quiet, solemn affair, full of hushed tones, and furtive looks. None of the students peeked, but Simone saw her brother watching slantwise, as if witnessing a crime. It only took a few seconds. Each Alter would pause for just a moment, as if in stasis. In some far away place, they each faced their entities, and chose one.
She had other things on her mind, like giving herself over, as much as she could, to a foreign intelligence. It had asked her for a name when she’d chosen it, but she hadn’t decided yet. It would ask again tonight, she guessed. She had promised it could run under the moonlight, in the night air. She wasn’t sure, but she believed she had chosen wisely. Her entity, as mysterious as it was, didn’t seem bad natured. It had been curious, awkward, and even nervous, just as she had been.
And it wants a name.
Simone’s father had warned her of the dangers of giving an entity leverage. The Consortium had an entire branch dedicated to combating Alter manifestations on the loose. Not that there were so many that it was a huge problem. He said the more dangerous problems were from Rogue-slaving of human beings and nano-manipulation, while the fear of ghosts was its own particular mania. The special branch that Cliff Nable belonged to seemed to think that the greatest danger was from the ghosts themselves—and Alter ghosts, in particular.
After Beasley and Hutto finished, Cliff Nable walked right up to Simone. “You need to be very careful,” he said.
Rigon turned his chair so that he had a better look. Everyone else noticed but tried to hide their interests. The chatter in the club seemed to increase to an uncomfortable level.
“I’ve been told.” She turned her head away, as if she might leave, and he shuffled back into her view.
“I doubt you were told everything.”
“My father warned me about negotiating.”
“I bet he did. He should know.” Agent Nable sidled closer, as if a confidant about to whisper a secret. “Did he tell you ... what it was like for someone who is open to the entities? I bet not. He probably thinks you have nothing to worry about ... yet.”
“I have all sorts of things to worry about.”
Agent Nable looked around, as if nervous. “You’re so cavalier about this.” He moved in closer, and she resisted moving a step away. “Did your father explain what it’ll be like for you, when you give it what it wants?”
“He said just be sure I was able to live with the agreement.”
“He knows you won’t agree to anything untoward.”
“Untoward? You mean, bad? Why don’t you just say so?”
“But even on your first time, you may experience what it is like to be that thing.”
“So.”
“You may enjoy it.”
“So.”
“Your mother and brother are thorough servants who root out Rogue incursions and Rogue-slaving and all the nastiness that happens when bad programming manufactures bad products.” He puffed up his little chest. “But in my branch, we’re worried about a bigger threat.”
“Bigger threat than the Rogues?”
“I don’t want to argue with you. Your mother told me you think these are supernatural beings. I disagree. They’re something else, Simone. I agree with her on that, but she and your father think humans can use them. That’s where we part.”
“Good for you.” Simone’s mother and brother were now watching, no longer even pretending to talk. Rigon looked like he might roll over here any second. “You gave me your warning. Now what?”
“If you like it, Simone ...”
She saw the slightest hint of a smile, the kind—she imagined—someone might give you right before they push you off a cliff.
“Well, if you like it, I’ll need to know.”
She snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell you.” She floated past him. “Dork.”
* * *
Because of Agent Nable, the rest of the afternoon was wrecked for her. She told her mother she was tired. She whisked herself over the treetops and returned to Uncle Pic’s cabin. He’d left her tablet on a table. She could do homework—well, read at least, while all her exams were to be given orally—so she used the energy at her finger tips to scroll through her week’s assignments, knowing there would be hell to pay at some point for everything she’d missed. The battery still had another two or three weeks worth of charge on it before someone would have to refill it.
The ca
bin was calm at this late afternoon hour. Uncle Pic worked in his garden, his humming a soft sound in the background. He had cut green peppers and laid them on his cutting board, the smell of them lingering in the air like an organic perfume. The diffused light made her think of what it was like living before the electric revolution, which spawned the computer revolution, which spawned the social revolution called the Rupture. That was simplistic, and in their history class she was supposed to be reading about all the other elements that went into making machines smart and self-replicating, making humans better, making the impossible happen.
She looked around at the small space and paused at the desk under the loft. It held stacks of old-fashioned analog books, many of them dog-eared and marked up. Uncle Pic liked leaving ballpoint pens or lead pencils in them so that the spines were always warped. He even still wrote on loose-leaf paper.
Everywhere you looked you saw anachronisms. A cast-iron wood-burning stove with a flue reached to the ceiling. Nearby sat a squat kettle. He even hauled all his water from a well out back. There was a marble-top counter with all his cooking utensils. She had overheard him arguing with her father, and most of their conversations consisted of Uncle Pic giving him a hard time for being a ghost and her father doing the same for Uncle Pic’s insistence on using outdated technology. “You like it too much, Skip,” Uncle Pic said more than once, the very same thing Agent Nable had just said to her.
She heard Uncle Pic returning from the garden, now whistling. The floor boards creaked. He walked up on his porch, making enough noise you’d think he was hard of hearing. He kicked open his door.
“Howdy, little ghost.”
His arms were covered up to his elbows in Georgia red clay. He wore an old T-shirt with a picture of some muscle-bound glad-fighter from the past, plus a pair of shorts that were much too small for his old-man legs. He wasn’t shriveled and frail, but the wrinkles were proof he hadn’t kept up with his senescence treatments.
“Come on out and chat,” he said. “I had a feeling you were in here.” She floated into the late afternoon sunshine, imagining it to warm a body on a chill day, and followed him around the side, where he kept an open shed full of tools. He stopped at an aluminum tub of his daily water he used for washing. He began scrubbing down his arms.
