The Beam: Season One

by Sean Platt

  “Run!” Nicolai yelled.

  Without waiting for a response, Nicolai ran. He dove head-first through the shattered window, tucking and rolling as he struck the grass beyond it. He hopped up, his eyes darting around for rioters. Enzo climbed through the window behind him — feet first, as if they had all the time in the world. Nicolai wasn’t waiting. He darted to the fence and threw a scrap of metal at it to see if it was still electrified. Nothing sparked, but he didn’t know if that meant anything. It didn’t matter. If they were going to escape, this was the only way. Getting fried was better than waiting to be shot and robbed.

  Nicolai gripped the fence.

  It was safe. The Rake Squad had shut it down when they’d broken in, of course.

  Without taking time to reflect on his good fortune, Nicolai clambered up hand for hand, moving fast. Enzo slapped into the fence below him and began moving upward, clumsy and slow. Nicolai stepped on his fingers. Enzo yelled, but Nicolai found himself unable to care. He reached the top, peeled off his sweater by alternating hands on the fence, and tossed it over the razor wire. He made it halfway over before one of the blades sliced into his calf. The cut wasn’t deep, but it made him grip the fence too tight. His balance teetered. Then a second blade pushed through the sweater and cut his palm. It was too much pain at once; his grip slipped. He was briefly airborne, then crashed roughly into the tall grass on the far side of the fence.

  Nicolai looked up. He didn’t know where Enzo was. He heard gunshots close by. They were almost certainly coming from the classroom he’d just left. Rake Squad incursions were strangely formulaic, based on the internet and news reports they’d been getting throughout Italy: the Squads tended to rob low academies and massacre high academies because seventeen and eighteen year olds had an annoying tendency to fight back. Either way, the Squads took the spoils. If Nicolai returned to the school tomorrow, which he never would, he’d find it stripped to nothing, worse than a ghost town, probably burned for spite.

  Something thumped beside Nicolai in the weeds. He looked over and saw Enzo, dazed but still breathing.

  “They’re dead,” he said. Enzo was a class clown at best, an arrogant jerk at worst. But now, his shoulders twitching at the sound of each of the gunshots, his usual cockiness and bravado had totally left his eyes. He looked more than terrified. He looked lost, as if he had no idea where to go or which end was up. It seemed impossible to believe that just a moment before, this same boy had been trying to hit his teacher in the ass with a paper airplane.

  Nicolai nodded. “Yes. But we’re not. Keep moving.”

  Nicolai’s head was cool. He’d lived a luxurious life, but a year of global disaster had burrowed its way into his brain. Nicolai had been sensitive for years — an artistic temperament, instructors and family agreed — but the only way for such a temperament to survive the reports of billions dying and countries brought to their knees was to anticipate the worst. And here it was, real and present: his classmates were dead and his school would burn. Some day, that would bother him, but not today. Right now, only Nicolai mattered. His family came second, and Enzo, for now, came third. Everything and everyone else was trivia, nothing more.

  “Good thing you had that disc,” said Enzo. “Otherwise we’d have been toast.”

  “I’ve been carrying a stunner in my pack for weeks,” Nicolai replied, still looking around. If they hadn’t been able to get through the window, he would have stormed through the crowds. “Stunner” was a bit of an understatement. The weapon — one of a few publicly known goodies in his father’s arsenal — was like a grenade that exploded in only one direction. Enzo’s stealing the disc had made things easier, but Nicolai had been prepared to turn acres of rioters to hamburger if he had to.

  “Bullshit! How did you sneak a stunner past the gates?”

  Nicolai didn’t answer. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why did it matter?

  He started walking, not caring if Enzo followed. They tromped through brambles, down into a small ravine and across a tiny clear river, using their hands and feet to scramble up its steep bank. Nicolai missed a foothold and clocked Enzo in the face. He didn’t bother to apologize. Enzo was still yapping about school regulations while their world was ending — their cloistered little rich man’s paradise finally catching the chaos the rest of the globe had been facing for months.

  As they came out of the ravine, Nicolai could see smoke pluming from homes up the hill. He had two tasks: stay alive, and get home. He’d have more tasks once he reached his family’s villa, but for now singular focus would fuel his motion. Nicolai couldn’t afford to think, if thinking meant stopping.

  They ran across a field, staying judiciously back from the winding road that wound up from the touristy downtown to the estates on the cliff. If there were rioters up this far, they’d be on the road. Nicolai stayed low and kept quiet, staying light and fast on his feet. Enzo walked high and was loud. Nicolai wondered if he should outrun his friend and leave him behind, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he hissed at Enzo to stay down and shut the fuck up. When Enzo didn’t listen, Nicolai hit him in the face, hard. Enzo didn’t protest. Something in Nicolai’s eyes stopped him cold.

  “Where’s your stunner?” said Enzo.

  “In my bag.”

  Enzo looked Nicolai over as if he was missing something.

  “I couldn’t take it. Going through the front door was plan A. Going over the fence was plan B, and my bag was in the corner. There was no time.” It was a bummer, but there was no point in lamenting the loss of his father’s restricted weaponry. The rest of the world didn’t even know most of the technology in his father’s office even existed. There were privileges that came both with wealth and connections, but now Nicolai, as just one more boy fighting to survive, was on equal footing. And so be it.

  They were crossing a yard when two men stepped out from behind a shed. Nicolai turned and found another behind them, holding a knife.

  “Well, whatsie’s this?” said one of the two men in front, speaking in the mishmash accent that had become common in the rabble.

  “Kindlings,” said the man beside him. “Kindlings with richy bitchy shoes. Where you got those shoes, boys?”

  Nicolai looked around at the group, then subtly lowered the timbre and rhythm of his voice to match the feel of their speech. It wasn’t overt enough to look like mockery — just enough to make them feel they knew him, and that maybe he wasn’t so unlike them at all. “You want ‘em? They’s yours.”

  Enzo looked over at him, confused.

  “We took ‘em offa some townies. You can haveem, right?”

  The closest man lowered his blade. None of the three seemed to have guns, which had grown too scarce for all but the most high-falutin’ criminals. Oh, what Nicolai would give for his stunner. Fighting their way past road bandits with with a stunner would be like hunting squirrels with a bazooka.

  “Bullshits,” said the man behind them. “You’s from here. They’s your shoes.”

  Nicolai shrugged.

  “Empty you pockets,” said the closest man, looking unsure. He’d clearly planned to kill them, but now it looked like they might get off with a mugging.

  “You’re not getting my shit,” said Enzo, standing tall.

  Nicolai closed his eyes briefly, despite the moment. It was exactly the sort of stupidly prideful thing a kid who wanted to die would say, and exactly how that kid would say it.

  “C’mere bitchy,” said the first man. “Th’easier to cut you with.” He raised his knife again, once again sure of what to do with them. He took a step forward and used his free hand to knock Enzo down. Nicolai flexed forward, but Enzo was already on the grass and the other two men held their blades at his gut.

  Enzo might have still had a chance, but he didn’t know when to lay down. He bolted upright, and one of the bandits stabbed him in the belly. Nicolai flinched as the man struck, ready to deflect the knife, but it happened too fast. Enzo’s mouth became an O. He gasped his
final breath. The other highwaymen watched him, waiting. The murderer twisted his fist in Enzo’s gut.

  Two blades. One opportunity.

  Nicolai slammed into the closest knifeman, closing the short distance between them too quickly for the man to strike. As Nicolai knew he would, the second man jabbed his knife toward Nicolai’s back. Nicolai dragged the first man around, twisting him in place. The attacker stabbed his compatriot in the kidney, and before they could regroup and free their knives Nicolai pushed hard backward, hurling the stabbed man into his stabber. The man holding Enzo still hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t expected a challenge, and before he could react, Nicolai took off in a sprint. He was across a path and into a thicket before the men could move. Nicolai heard them yell, but they wouldn’t come after him now. There were homes to rob, easier targets to fall upon. The boy could go, and take his fight with him.

  Staying even lower, walking even more cautiously and blocking the most recent horror from his mind, Nicolai chilled his thoughts and focused on setting one foot in front of the other. Homes burned around him. His family was the wealthiest on the coast, his house the largest and most obvious target. The estate was near the hill’s peak, as visible and opulent from below as a crown jewel. It was the first place the Squads would want to attack… but if the family was lucky, it’d also be the last place they’d be able to touch. Sophia, the home’s security system, was hooked into his father’s fledgling technology that he swore would change the world and put Italy on top of the new one. Sophia gave their home a brain, and getting at the Costas’ treasures would require more than crowbars and explosives.

  They’ll be needed to open the safes and the vaults, Nicolai told himself as he felt the red fog of panic threatening his mind’s edges. Their knowledge of the system makes them important. They’ll be fine. It’ll be okay in the end, thanks to Sophia.

  And for a few steps it even made sense, and Nicolai almost relaxed. How could the Squads get past the mansion’s security without hackers, especially considering they’d be hacking a next-gen network that few people in the world even knew existed? But his fantasy fell apart when he reached the estate to find the gates breached, the big wrought iron doors hanging askew. It looked like a tank had run through them. So much for needing hackers to pass the first perimeter; brute force was still obeyed by even the best technology.

  The breach (caused by a vehicle that was now half in the pool, its rear poking into the air at the end of two long, dirty ruts through the manicured grounds) had set off the house alarms, but they must have been going off for a while by the time Nicolai arrived because all he heard was the occasional reminder chirp. The safety lights were still strobing, making the disorder he could see through the windows look like a riotous discotheque. And at the top of the circular driveway, the front door yawned open as if beaten in by a battering ram.

  Nicolai walked the length of the central building, trying to scope the situation before going inside. He saw something dark on the walls, like an explosion of paint. In the flickering light, it looked almost black. Before committing to enter, Nicolai found a terminal and killed the alarm. Then he walked inside.

  The house was upside down. Nothing valuable had been left, and nothing inconsequential was still whole and undamaged. The intruders — a group that probably included everyone by now, including the good people of the Amalfi Coast below — seemed to have been settling a grudge. They’d ripped open every cushion and befouled every plush carpet and piece of art. His family’s belongings were either smashed to bits or stolen. It looked like the aftermath of a bombing.

  He found their bodies in the living room. They’d been killed with knives (his brother Vincenzo and mother) and with what was probably a homemade hand cannon (his father and twin sisters).

  Ever since he’d begun walking up the hill with Enzo, Nicolai had been steeled for what he might find, but his wall crumbled when he saw them. His mouth came open and his eyes started to water.

  Then something struck him from behind, and Nicolai saw nothing else as he fell to the floor.

  Someone was snapping in front of his face.

  It took Nicolai a long and excruciatingly painful moment to remember where he was and what had preceded his wrists being tied, his mouth being gagged, and his body being dragged down into the wine cellar. Memory returned in red chunks, slamming into him with the rhythm of those snapping fingers. He blinked to clear blood from his eyes. His head hurt and his scalp seemed to be bleeding.

  “Heya. Heya, boyo. You commin’ around?” said the fingers. He saw a man behind them, his jaw seemingly twisted out of kilter. The roughneck had days’ worth of stubble and a new laceration on his cheek; fresh enough that there was blood at its edge. Nicolai wondered if he himself done it, or if it had been done by someone in his family. The thought reminded him of the bodies in the living room, so he pushed it down and tried to focus.

  Nicolai grunted.

  “Oy! He’s coming back up!” the man yelled over his shoulder. Someone else came walking over, this one in an ugly green shirt that was covered in burns and dirt. His face was long and narrow, as if stretched on a taffy machine.

  “So he is,” said the newcomer, ripping Nicolai’s gag from his face. Then, to Nicolai, he added, “We need your eye.”

  “To see what you did to my family?”

  The man with the long face looked hurt. “Heya, we didn’t do that. They were that way when we found them. Some assfuck smashed through the gate and stole all your goodies. Shame that, right? No, I mean your eye. To open the safe.”

  Nicolai wondered who the men were, but it didn’t matter. He could hear more of them moving around everywhere now — in the wine cellar and above in the house. There seemed to be dozens, maybe more. Had they been hiding when he’d come in?

  “We don’t have a safe,” said Nicolai.

  There was a sharp pain and Nicolai looked down to see that the man had poked a knife into his side. The stab was shallow, but the blade was long. Plenty of room to go further, and take his intestines as it went.

  “I don’t think the safe will open if I hack your eye out and hold it up to the scanner, but I’m good to try,” said the man. “We know you gots a safe. But there’s not lots of time. Fortune favors the bold and speedy, eh? There’s other bands on this hill. Help with the safe or I kill you. Your choice.”

  Nicolai wouldn’t satisfy the man by letting him know how much the knife in his side was killing him, but he did look up at his long face and decided that his offer was true. There would be no game-playing. If this group didn’t get the safe quickly, they’d have to fight other rioters for it. The safe mattered, but not enough to take the time needed beat the truth slowly from Nicolai’s body.

  “How many people are in my house?” Nicolai asked. He swallowed and looked up.

  “Enough,” said the man.

  “Will you kill me afterward?”

  The knife twisted. “I guarantee that if you don’t help, I’ll kill you now.”

  Nicolai couldn’t help it; he cried out, nodding vigorously until the knife left his side. Then he looked at the wine cellar’s wooden ceiling, hearing the number of tromping boots increase with every passing minute. He thought of the security system, of Sophia, and of what his father had told him about concentric perimeters. How much had the looters destroyed? Would the safe even still work?

  The long-faced man watched Nicolai, watched the other man. How many were in the group? There had to be dozens. Maybe as many as fifty. He might be able to get by one man, two men, maybe three or four. But the house was occupied like a besieged land by an invading army. Running was no longer an option. Still, Nicolai wondered if he should resist. Why should he let them into the safe? They’d probably kill him afterward, if for no other reason than to cover their trail. So why should his final act in his family’s house — be it his last before running or last before dying — be a betrayal of their most valuable possessions… and maybe even their biggest secrets?

  T
he man, seeming to sense his hesitation, kicked him to action.

  Nicolai teetered to his feet, then climbed the stairs in front of the man’s nudging insistence. Nicolai wondered if he could run. They’d untied his hands; his feet weren’t bound; he knew the house; he knew the area. Sure, the bandit might shoot him in the back (if he had a gun, which he might not), but at least he’d have a chance. Nicolai was agile; he could duck and weave and evade as well as anyone. But the fantasy dissolved when he reached the top of the stairs and found what looked like an army. Dirty men and women (some looking like a gang, plenty looking like townies spattered with blood and grime) milled through the hallways, assessing everything that remained. They were sprawled on his father’s favorite couch, in his mother’s pneumatic rocker. His father had an easy chair with a levitating ottoman — a prototype using the same technology that had flown Enzo’s paper airplane into Ms. Marco’s ass a lifetime ago. Two men were fighting over it, mystified by the floating cushion.

  As Nicolai walked, the people in the house turned to watch him. The long-faced man was clearly the leader, and they knew where Nicolai was leading him. It was the only reason they’d stayed.

  Feeling conflicted, his heart beating hard in his chest, Nicolai led the growing party into the master bedroom. A few milling rioters who’d camped out in the bedroom were clustered around the nightstand, where a scan panel had already been opened. Its panel was yellow, because Nicolai had put the alarm in standby before he’d entered.

  He looked at the thirty or so menacing faces surrounding him in the large room — all of them waiting for the home’s heir to set his eye to the scanner.

  With a final, rueful look around, Nicolai bent and set his forehead against the pad. The system was self-contained and would function even in a power or network failure. A red light flashed in his eye, and then there was the small chirp as Sophia’s (or her latest buffered identity algorithms if the connection was severed) recognized him as a Costa. A second panel slid open, and Nicolai keyed in a code. There was another chirp. Then, inside the open walk-in closet, a panel rose from the floor on a pneumatic lift. On it sat a large brushed aluminum safe.