by Sean Platt
“Boxes in boxes, eh?” said the bandit leader. “Open that one, too.”
Nicolai did as he was told, kneeling in front of the safe and feeling the pressure of scores of eyes over his shoulder. Would they swarm when he opened it? Would it become every man and woman for themselves, or was there clan honor among them?
Nicolai turned the dial, then pressed his finger against the small green pad on the safe. The mechanism clicked and he opened the door. The masses behind him sighed and leaned in, but they stayed back.
The man with the long face kicked Nicolai aside and moved forward. Inside the safe was only one item: a beautiful crystal box. The man pulled out the box, crossed to the bed, and set it on the bedspread. The others clustered around, watching. There was no lock on the latch. The man flicked the latch and opened the box. Inside were what looked like hundreds of silver marbles.
“What are these?” said the bandit, looking back at Nicolai.
Nicolai didn’t have to answer. As the crowd watched, the marbles began to rise from the box of their own accord. They began to revolve around one another, floating and swirling in patterns. They danced that way for a while, then formed a miniature cyclone, fizzing from the box in a wave. The silver balls spread out, moving throughout the room, throughout the crowd. Like the levitating ottoman, the rioters had clearly never seen anything like the flying marbles before. They staggered back, unsure. But after a few seconds, their curiosity got the best of them and they began to poke at the things, to try and grab them (the spheres zoomed away playfully, then returned like sparrows), and finally to laugh. The marbles continued to float, swapping one for another in pairs, bouncing, making vortices in the air. They paused, moved, paused again, like a dance.
There was a chirp.
“Confirm,” said Nicolai from the closet.
With a sound like a knife dragged across a stone, every marble in the air grew spikes, becoming miniature morning stars. Then they all accelerated at once, plowing through the nearest skull. Nicolai watched as a hole appeared in the tall man’s forehead, the spiked ball emerging from the other side sticky with gore. A dozen bodies fell, then fifteen, then twenty.
Those who weren’t hit right away scrambled to run, knocking into each other, tripping on the bodies. The balls followed, easily keeping pace, converging like locusts. Watching from the closet, Nicolai felt a bitter sort of victory. If the intruders knew what they were facing, they wouldn’t bother to run. When the target stood still, facial recognition would sight a spot between the eyes and end things quickly. But when the target ran, the ministars became raw bludgeons, beating the target until it lay still and stopped radiating the bioelectric current that came with a heartbeat.
Dozens of stars converged on one man, turning him to pulp. Another tried for a window, but the reinforced windows were strong, and the man simply bounced off. He turned as five or six of the spiked balls struck him in the gut. The ministars were oddly courteous. In the same way they avoided Nicolai, they avoided the walls and furniture. If Nicolai were planning to remain in his family’s home, he’d be able to turn on the cleaners to scavenge the blood from the carpet fibers and it would be like the intruders had never been there.
When all of the bodies had fallen (the balls would hunt through every room; they could hear a heartbeat no matter how well a person might hide), Nicolai rose and, now totally alone, made his way back down into the wine cellar. When he was standing just a few feet from where he’d woken up bound, he said, “Nicolai Costa. Five-one-seven-oh. Go verbal.”
There was a chirp, and a soft female voice said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Costa.”
“Stand down ministars. I want into the arsenal.”
“Access to the arsenal is restricted.”
“Request emergency access.”
There was a chirp as the system accessed surveillance records and the AI determined that Nicolai was the only remaining Costa, turning his word to law.
“Access granted. I’m sorry, Mr. Costa.”
Nicolai felt strangely moved by the programmed response to emergency access, then swallowed it. The situation was what it was. He was now on his own. Nothing would change that — not sorrow, not despair. He could live or he could die. Those were the only things that still mattered.
A rack of wine bottles moved aside and the wall behind it slid open to reveal the world’s deadliest walk-in. In a few years, the items inside the arsenal (or in the decoy safe) might be smart enough for automation. Maybe in a few years, the house itself could have saved Nicolai’s mother, father, brother, and sisters. But Nicolai’s father didn’t yet trust his new technology enough to give it free reign over their home’s security. It was ironic to think it was that very skepticism that had gotten them all killed.
It didn’t matter. What was done was done, and no amount of what-if would change it.
Before entering the arsenal, Nicolai walked over to a corpse without a head and stripped off its clothing and backpack. He swapped the bandit’s clothes for his own, then took a palmful of the man’s blood and rubbed it into his groomed hair to muss it. He stepped inside the arsenal, to its back, and loaded the intruder’s backpack with food, water purification kits, first aid, and cash. He grabbed a few knives and a small slumber gun, but forced himself to ignore the room’s advanced gadgets, be they innocuous, beneficial, or deadly. It was excruciating to pass the kickstands — hovering scooters that collapsed to the size of a police baton — but he told himself that he was now part of the rabble, and that his money would only get him killed. Advanced weapons and transportation mattered not at all if something was discovered in his possession before he could use it to flee. Nicolai was a Costa. He could be trusted with his father’s wares. But as the world crumbled, he had his doubts that the rest of the population could. His father had guarded this technology carefully, and Nicolai wouldn’t betray him by loosing it on a crumbling society. What was in here might one day have changed the world… but as his father had often lamented, there was no way to say whether that change would be for better or worse.
He walked to the front of the arsenal, then turned to look back.
“I need the remote.”
A small device slid from a compartment inside the arsenal’s wall. Nicolai took it.
Once outside with the small, rustic pack slung over his shoulder, Nicolai keyed the remote and tossed it aside.
Behind him, the house began to burn in a blazing white phosphorous fire that would destroy it all.
Chapter 2
Natasha stalked up behind Isaac, set a glass of wine on the tabletop, and slapped a hand onto her slender hip.
“I’m sick of being in my office.”
Isaac barely looked back. “So come out.”
“I’m in there because you’re self-absorbed out here. You aren’t paying attention to me; it’s all Isaac all the time. I can’t avoid the Beam feeds while waiting for you. Have you been watching? It’s all replays of the riot at my concert at the Aphora, including video of me running away. The sheets are all about me. Bashing me. Saying how I got what I deserved. I’ve got a concert next weekend, Isaac!”
Isaac turned, his dark eyes hooded, eyebrows drawn together in a way that suggested he didn’t want to fight but wasn’t buying into Natasha’s bullshit. Not that it was bullshit. But that’s how Isaac was sure to see it, asshole that he could be sometimes.
“Oh, so fucking what, Natasha? Is that really what’s bothering you? The sheets? Do you even know what that riot was about?”
“They want what I have! It was a bunch of poor people lashing out. That’s why I said no cheap seats. Those fucking cretins don’t appreciate…”
“Exactly!” Isaac blurted, raising his hands. “Haves versus have-nots, same as it’s been since the dawn of forever. So why are you making it all about you, Natasha? The Directorate is poor, and with Shift approaching, it’s like they’ve just realized they’re poor, and they’re pissed. Never mind that they chose to be in our party. Never mind that we t
ake care of them, unlike the poor people in Enterprise. Never mind that they don’t have to work if they ration properly. Never mind that everything is done for them, that they can plug into Beam simulations all fucking day and rot while synthetic fucking hookers feed them synthetic fucking grapes and we pay for their housing, healthcare, and fucking living expenses stipend. But oh, they don’t think of that. No. All they think about is who’s above them and who’s below them. Like us. They just see us as Beau Monde Directorate, all high and mighty in our crystal towers.”
Isaac rolled his eyes, practically growling in frustration.
“We’re like Enterprise to them,” he ranted. “This stupid fucking party! Greedy, greedy bastards. The family in the Old Brooklyn apartment who doesn’t have to work is jealous of the family in the upper east side who doesn’t have to work… and those bastards are jealous of the upper-westers. Nobody’s satisfied. This all made sense when Micah and I split, and now I wonder if maybe he was right. You give things to people and they only want more.”
Natasha flopped onto the divan. Isaac was being such a jerk. Yes, society had its problems, but so did his wife. Why was he so preoccupied with politics when the raff were after her? He’d never so much as consoled her after she’d fled the Aphora, never wrapped his hands around her after the concert and told her that everything would be okay. James had led her from the hover and through the apartment’s docking port in tears. And what had Isaac done when he’d seen her in distress? He’d treated her like another problem that was crowding his schedule. An assault on his showbiz wife just meant more work for Isaac. So while she’d crumpled and tried to fight the emotions warring within her, he’d stalked off mumbling about the Directorate and how a few assholes were making his whole party look bad. Natasha was left to calm herself while Isaac took call after call, occasionally glaring at her like an uncompleted to-do.
“I don’t want to argue politics with you,” she said.
“Oh, you never do.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she spat.
“It’s all about you, Natasha. Always you. There’s more at stake here than just your hurt ego.”
She sat up, indignant. “And I don’t matter, right? Because I’m just a selfish bitch. Just a diva. The fact that I get spat on means nothing to you other than that people don’t like the rich. I’m like a canary in a mine for your damn party. If I die, it only matters because…”
Isaac interrupted her with a snort of laughter. “If you die?”
“You know what I mean.”
He shrugged, flapped his hands at the ends of his wrists, and gave her a look. “What do you want, Natasha?”
“Maybe a kind word. A moment of your time. If you could deign to talk to your wife about something that’s bothering her. The sheets act like I’m not a person, but I am. This all hurts. Every bit of it.”
“Oh, so you’re hurt,” he said. “I’m crushed. Look, I’ve got my plate heaped high with shit here. The Directorate is about to explode in riots and Micah’s over at Enterprise HQ lapping it up, making it worse. If something doesn’t change, we’re going to see mass defections. We’ll lose control of the senate. Copycat riots continue to erupt, and Beam news stories and your stupid gossip sheets are feeding the whole thing, leading to more riots. Everyone blames us. Oh, and Nicolai is missing—did I tell you that?”
Natasha sat up. “Nicolai is missing?”
“I’m supposed to respond to Micah’s latest volley, but I don’t know what to say! That asshole has gone off-grid, maybe with some shady upgrade dealer. Captain Long is being a cunt about it, not helping at all, and keeps tossing some bullshit having to do with Organa back at me as if I care… not that those fucking freaks make life any easier for any of us, Beau Monde or the lower ninety-nine.”
Natasha wanted to snap back, but felt bludgeoned by Isaac’s words. That was the thing about her husband: yes, he needed his speeches written for him, but his presence was dominant and persuasive. She couldn’t argue with a single word he’d said. It was true that there were much bigger problems out there than her personal feelings about being shunned and rejected. But somehow, in a way she couldn’t quite articulate, it seemed like a man should care that his wife had been chased by a mob.
“You should care about me,” was all she could say.
“How do we afford all of your enhancements, Natasha? Where would your career and fragile self esteem be without all of that expensive technology in your system? What if you still had your fat cells? What if you looked anywhere near your age? You’re like a fucking antique car with all this upkeep.”
Natasha felt tears brim at her eyelids. The tears made her furious. She wanted to be indignant, not weak. But Isaac would see her wet eyes and think that she was being emotional, just like a woman. That was how men were; they didn’t think a woman could be both emotional and right at the same time. If Natasha was crying, Isaac would know she was wrong… and losing.
“You’re an asshole,” she spat.
“Sure.”
“You’re an ASSHOLE!”
Isaac waved her away, turning and tapping the screen of his handheld.
Natasha ran to her office, slammed the door, and locked it. She walked over and set her head in a cradle at the top of one of the two comfortable leather chairs along the far wall. Her fingers tapped a button on the chair’s arm. In seconds, the surrounding room began to swim. Her eyes’ sensory input tuned down as the room’s small sounds faded and the chair’s feel beneath her began to dissolve. Isaac wanted to talk about expensive upgrades? Fine. These immersion rigs — a pair of which were in each of their offices — were the most expensive equipment they had, and Natasha knew exactly how she wanted to use hers.
As Natasha fell into the simulation, the Beam-projected inputs smoothly replaced all five of her natural senses. After the transition was complete, she found herself standing in an all white bedroom. She wore a sheer white gown with nothing underneath, and could feel its movement on every inch of her skin. A breeze wafted from somewhere, even though the simulated room had no windows. There were no entrances or exits. Nobody would bother her here, and could only come via invite. This area of the Viazo was hers. She paid a pretty penny to keep her own piece of virtual real estate all to herself.
Feeling with every cell as if she were actually in the white room rather than in a black leather chair in her office, Natasha raised her hands and gestured. A window floated open in front of her. She scrolled through names, searching for one in particular. She found it, relieved. He was online. She tapped the name, and a moment later the chiseled face of a handsome man appeared.
“Andre,” she whispered.
“Natasha.”
“I’m in the Viazo,” she said.
A small smile crossed his lips.
“My husband is neglecting me. He doesn’t understand me.”
“Would you like some company?” Andre asked.
“I need some,” she replied.
He nodded. Natasha closed the window. She turned, then laid back on the bed. A man shimmered into existence across the room, having moved his avatar into the Viazo on her invite. Viazo avatars weren’t like the pixelated, video-and-audio-only avatars that existed in poorer sections of The Beam. These were sharp, and Andre’s beauty, as Natasha watched him approach, was sharp and crisp and present. Viazo avatars had all five senses, every scintilla of which were transmitted into the user’s cortex via high-end immersion rigs. And thanks to the rather expensive nanos in Natasha and Andre’s real bodies that were able to down-tune their real senses so they could experience the replacement senses, it truly felt like being there.
The handsome man climbed onto the bed and laid on top of Natasha. His pressure on her was reassuring and arousing at the same time.
“You shouldn’t cheat on your husband,” Andre said while kissing down the length of her neck, her chest, her belly.
“How can I cheat?” Natasha replied, spreading her legs to make room for Andre’s face
. “I’m not even here.”
Chapter 3
Dominic Long sat in his shitty public official’s office behind his shitty sixty-year-old public official’s desk. The casters of his shitty chair rattled on the shitty chipped synthetic flooring beneath his feet, most of which was peeling and faded because, Dominic suspected, it was incredibly shitty. He stared at his shitty console-model canvas and wondered for the billionth time why, if police were so important to maintaining order, they received such shitty appropriations.
Thanks to his high position within this shitty, underfunded public service, Dominic had money despite being Directorate. Good money, in fact — enough to put him at the lower edge of what those above him called the “Presque Beau.” But regardless of his good station, Dominic always felt depressed after a visit to the Quark wing. His great-grandfather had been a New York City cop back around the turn of the millennium, and Dominic had seen the old digital videos Grandy had shot with his ancient iPhone — enough to know that the station Dominic sat in today hadn’t changed all that much since Grandy’s day. The Quark station was what law enforcement was supposed to look like after a hundred years of progress. But would Grandy be surprised to see how little had changed? Dominic doubted it. Sure, DZPD had The Beam, but the consoles they used to access it weren’t all that different from the PC’s Grandy had used back when he used to walk the beat.
Of course, the reason the DZPD wasn’t as funded as it should have been was partially due to politics, but it was also due to the fact that DZPD wasn’t the real law in town. When all the fancy talk was set aside, everyone knew that The Beam ran the city (just as it ran all cities) and that despite all of their protests to the contrary, it was Quark who’d created The Beam… and hence Quark who still controlled it.
