The Beam: Season One

by Sean Platt

  But how the hell was she going to get out of it? Could she even get out of it?

  If the men in the so-called Stark suits had working brains (and with Micah at their heels, they should), they wouldn’t give Kai a projectile or immobilizing weapon to use against Doc once they caught up with him. They’d keep their distance, and watch her closely. They would stay with her, two against one. She had a few defenses, but nothing that was of any use against a casing of intelligent metal. She saw no holes to exploit. Maybe she’d get lucky — maybe they’d give her a weapon or stand too close — but she doubted it and refused to count on it. And even if she was somehow able to turn the tables, should she? If she managed to flee, she’d make an enemy of Micah, and the same went if she somehow attacked or killed the men in the suits. Kai didn’t want to do that; Micah was useful. And Micah was a powerful enemy to have at your back.

  She could try and talk to Micah. But of course that wouldn’t work. Micah wasn't good at empathy when it conflicted with his personal interests.

  She could try to escape. But no, she'd already considered that. She’d be putting her life in danger, surrendering everything she'd achieved. Goodbye to her client base, her apartment, her belongings and money, farewell to her security and her nest egg. Farewell, in fact, to Kai Dreyfus herself. Running from or fighting Micah would mean starting over at best, ending up dead (or back on the Orion) at worst.

  She leaned into the soldier, trying to peek around him. She could see a Beam tracker displayed on the small screen between the screetbike’s handlebars. Maybe she could try to help Doc somehow — find a way to contact him and give him an advantage, tell him what he was facing and that more severe preventative measures might need to be taken. But the chances of getting to Doc before the soldiers and then facilitating his escape in a non-overt way seemed wafer-thin at best, especially considering the fact that she was literally welded to one of the soldiers at the moment. And what could she suggest that they wouldn’t be able to circumvent, anyway? She didn’t know enough about the technology at Micah’s disposal. Would a complete ID wipe (well beyond what Stanford was going to do for Doc) even hide him? Or had they learned to follow a person's DNA, brain waves, or something else that couldn’t be altered or masked?

  There was no way to win. None of the options were any good.

  Kill Doc.

  Run.

  Die.

  Those were her only three choices, and they were all terrible.

  She leaned forward and shouted into the soldier’s ear, her limp arms tethering her to him like cargo straps.

  “I want to talk to Micah!” she yelled.

  The soldier snickered.

  “I’m not kidding!”

  He said, “Whores don’t talk to the boss.”

  “If he learns later that you didn’t let me talk to him about something that bears directly on what we’re doing now and the whole thing gets fucked up, do you think he’ll be happy?”

  The soldier’s head twitched. “Just tell me, and I’ll tell him.”

  Kai already knew she had him. A girl learned a few things over the years about when men were being resolute, when they were bending, and when you could break them.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “I called for help and he sent you running. I’m more important to him than you are.”

  The soldier looked like he was about to retort, but was probably working out the truth in Kai's words. After a few seconds he said, “You have an implant?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fine. Coming back at you.”

  Kai’s cochlear implant made tiny chirps as the soldier sent her the call. A moment later, she heard Micah in her ear. Her Beam ID must have shown on his end because without preamble, he said, “Yes. You have to do it.”

  Kai felt naked. She was usually a creature of subterfuge and secrets and didn’t like how transparent she always was to Micah, knowing how he’d see her doubts and this call. It was a sign of weakness — something that never increased a person’s stock in the eyes of Micah Ryan.

  “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Yes, it is. Don’t lower my opinion of you by giving me a line of bullshit. I expect you to be resistant, but I also expect you to do as you’ve been told. You understand this, Kitty. I know you do.”

  Kai considered making up a reason for talking to Micah anyway, but she knew he’d never buy it. If there was one thing Micah respected less than weakness, it was lying. Lying which implied that the liar though he was stupid was the absolute worst. So she caved, and answered him directly.

  “You know I’m on your side. You don’t need me to kill anyone to prove it. I’ve killed for you before.”

  “Not like this. He has to go. Whitlock can do it or you can; he’ll be just as dead either way. I’d hoped Stahl could be wiped, but he’s too much of a wildcard. I can’t be sure enough that it’ll take.”

  “Doc isn’t a threat to you,” she said. But that wasn’t enough for someone like Micah, who didn’t understand mercy, so she added, “He could be a huge asset. The people he knows…”

  “Too much of a wildcard,” Micah repeated.

  The thought hung in the air. Kai remembered something else she’d wanted to ask — something that would bear on how she felt about Micah, and what she might or might not be willing to do for him.

  “What happened to Nicolai?” she asked.

  “Costa? Wiped and released. He doesn’t have a cortical firewall. Not a wildcard.” Micah paused. “Did you know him before yesterday?”

  “He’s a client,” Kai said, hiding her relief that Micah’s story jibed with Kane’s.

  “Hmm.”

  Micah said nothing more, waiting for her to resolve the issue.

  “I won’t kill Doc for you,” she said.

  “Then I can’t trust you.”

  “Because I won’t kill a friend? It crosses the line. Would you kill your mother?” Kai stopped there, because not only was the comparison inapt (Doc wasn’t exactly Kai’s mother), but she also knew the answer. Micah and Isaac’s mother was in her hundreds, fantastically enhanced with add-ons that never quite took because she’d started enhancing too late in life, after her body had already suffered immense natural degenerative damage. The Ryans loved each other, but that wouldn’t stop any of them, including Rachel, from drawing blood if it served their interests.

  Micah didn’t reply for a while. When he did, it was with a simple repetition of his earlier message: “You understand my thinking. I know you do.”

  Kai sighed.

  “It’s him or you,” Micah said. “Or rather, it’s him or both of you. I’m sorry, Kitty.”

  And that was the worst of it. She could tell he was sorry. Micah could be a stone-cold son of a bitch, but he could also be warm and kind. He was just more diligent than most about those he doled his warmth and kindness to.

  “I know,” she said.

  “Just get it over with. Then we’ll catch up. It’s been too long.”

  “It has,” she said. “Goodbye, Champ.”

  Kai's implant chirped and she was back to being mentally alone. During the conversation, her head had lolled forward so that it was resting on the cool metal back of the soldier’s suit. She left it there.

  “He’s in a coffee shop on the outskirts,” said Whitlock, in front of her. Under Kai’s cheek, his back rose and fell as he spoke.

  Kai sighed. This was all her fault. This was happening (her part in it, anyway) because Doc had trusted her. He was about to learn a dangerous lesson, although he’d only know it for a few seconds: trust someone, and it’s only a matter of time before they stab you in the back. In this case, literally.

  “Ten minutes,” said Whitlock.

  Chapter 6

  Doc didn’t wait for Omar to enter the Starbucks before tackling him. Once they’d entered the coffee shop, StarbucksCorps would intervene in any altercation (there was a good reason the company employed its own highly trained peace force; hypercaff
eine was legal and moondust wasn’t, but everyone knew which addicts were more obnoxious) and customers might raise the alarm. Doc didn’t want attention, seeing as he was trying to hide. But he did want to crack Omar’s head against the sidewalk, so this seemed like a reasonable compromise.

  One moment, the thin black man in the bright white suit was marching toward the Starbucks rear entrance with two customer service holograms already forming to help/harass him, and the next Doc was spearing him in the stomach with his head. Doc imagined a million nanobots screaming as he mashed his well-maintained blonde hair into the lily white suit, then listened with satisfaction to the more authentic sound of Omar trying and failing to scream.

  While Omar gasped for breath, trying to move his diaphragm back into motion, Doc righted himself, tossed his disheveled hair back, and marched forward to grab the dealer by the back of his jacket. He dragged him from the entrance and toward an alleyway as two holograms tried to sell Omar packets of hypercaffeine quad mocha latte mix with included InstaFoam cartridges. The holograms were intuitive enough to realize their target had fallen to the ground but not quite intuitive enough to realize he’d been attacked. So they bent forward, following Omar as Doc dragged him, asking how he’d like to experience the full flavor of a freshly made Starbucks latte at home.

  “What the fuck did you get me into, Omar?” Doc yelled. He punched a Plasteel trash can in a tantrum, crushing his fist and wincing. “You want to tell me what you’ve been up to, who you’ve been talking to, what you’re doing that has… I don’t know… fucking Beamers and torturers and shit… all up my ass? You mind telling me that, Omar?”

  Omar continued to struggle for air on the alley floor.

  “You want to smuggle, fine. You want to get your ass in deep and risk NPS on your tail, fine. I know what a slippery shit you are. But the minute you start fucking with… with people who’d do that…” Doc was finding he couldn’t articulate himself at all. He felt almost as bad as Kai had looked when the Beamers had pulled her from the Orion and hauled her toward the evaporator. She’d gotten it a lot worse than he had, but he could still hardly think at all. He also felt weak and strangely paranoid, but at least he was strong enough to hit a man in the stomach with his head — and to lift a Plasteel trash can and hurl it across an alley, which he then did while yelling, “MOTHER! FUCKER!”

  Omar was slouched against the wall, his pristine white suit already dirty. His upper back was vertical and his lower back was horizontal on the ground. He formed a C shape in the corner, his left hand on his gut as if he’d been shot. He held his right hand up, dark fingers splayed.

  “Hang on, Doc. Just…” He heaved. “… just hang on. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tell me from the beginning.”

  But as half-thinking as Doc was, he knew not to volunteer information to Omar Jones. Omar was a fantastic business partner as long as you were his best option, but the minute something better came up, he’d crumple you like a can and toss you aside. Giving Omar information he might later use against you was like rolling safetied grenades into the other army’s foxholes.

  “Fuck that!” he yelled, kicking one of Omar’s legs.

  “Jesus, Doc! Maybe I screwed you over and maybe I didn’t, but unless the reason you called and told me to meet you here was to kill me, I ain’t gonna be any help in figuring shit out if you don’t tell me what’s up. And ideally… that means you’d stop hitting me.” His hand was still out. He wiggled himself into an upright sitting position, testing his breath to see if he’d gotten it back. He started to stand, lowering his hand and using both to brush dirt from his suit.

  Once Omar had composed himself, he reclaimed his cool. Doc, his brain still uneasy, told himself to watch it. Omar had an intensely strong presence. For a minute there, Doc had unquestionably had the upper hand, but if he let Omar get too confident, he’d easily end up back in charge. It was how Omar worked — maybe even his secret to success.

  Omar brushed his jacket a final time, then slowly looked up at Doc, his facial expression still guarded, unsure.

  “What’s up, Doc?” he said.

  “Xenia Labs.”

  “What about them?”

  “You trying to get in? Trying to learn what they’re doing?”

  Omar shrugged. “I’m always trying to learn things, Doc.”

  “I mean specifically. Are you trying to… infiltrate them? Actively trying to see what they’re developing, what they’re selling?”

  “I guess. But that’s why I’ve got you.”

  This was exactly the wrong thing to say. Doc knew he was still keyed up with Orion hangover and that his nanos hadn’t yet done all they could with his endorphin and epinephrine balance, but that knowledge didn’t stop him from grabbing Omar by the sleeves and slamming him hard against the wall, causing his teeth to crash together.

  “You’ve got me? Goddamn right you’ve got me, only I didn’t get a choice about being your bitch, did I? Now you get to tell me about it! Who’s after me, Omar? And why?”

  “Shit, blondie!” said Omar, rattled but otherwise only mildly perturbed. “How about you get your fucking hands off me and stop acting burned so we can discuss it? Or would you rather keep fucking my shit up and get nowhere?”

  But Doc wasn’t ready to settle. He felt his eyes bug out, fury coursing through his veins. “What do you mean, ‘you’ve got me’? Am I bugged? Did you somehow bug me, Omar? To do surveillance for you?”

  “Motherfucker, I just meant that you know more about Xenia than I do, and you open up shit to me that I can’t get. This ain’t new information. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Doc let Omar go, then took a step back, running his right hand through his hair. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He and Omar did talk regularly, despite having only had that one transaction in the park. Doc was planning to sell more to Omar, and Omar was planning to open more doors for Doc. It had only been a few days since Doc had learned that Xenia had more for sale than he’d ever before been permitted to see. Omar hadn’t set him up with Killian and taken his usual man out of the picture. The notion that Omar had sent him in to spy on Xenia was ludicrous. Kane’s theories had burrowed under Doc’s skin.

  “It’s been a rough few days.”

  “I guess, shit,” said Omar, shaking out his suitcoat. He put a hand on Doc’s arm in what seemed to be a gesture of peacemaking. “Let’s go inside. Okay? Get a coffee. You drink coffee, don’t you?”

  Doc did drink coffee, but something else occurred to him as well. He’d heard those men in the metal suits talking about giving Kai a drug called Neuralin. Doc knew about Neuralin, because a few of his clients used it recreationally to enhance the effects of some of the deeper neural implants he’d sold them. Doc had even suggested it to Nicolai for use with his creativity wetchip. Neuralin was a stimulant. Hypercaffeine was easily as strong of a stimulant. The two weren’t pharmaceutical analogues, but Doc thought they might be close enough. After his time on the Orion, he literally needed a jolt.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll buy,” said Omar. “See how great I am? You kick my ass and I’ll still lay out the green for you.”

  Green, thought Doc. Then he said, “You have dollars?”

  Omar gave him a look. “It’s an expression, brother. A common one. Someone really fucked you up, didn’t they?”

  Doc sighed. Of course. Nobody actually carried green. For one, it was no longer legal tender. He closed his eyes, realizing as he did it that he was feeding Omar power like nursing a vampire from an open artery. The closed eyes, the willingness to let Omar pay. But Doc didn’t have the strength to resist.

  “I need my coffee,” he said, forcing his eyes open. With them closed, he’d felt dizzy.

  Omar clapped a hand on Doc’s back and led him from the alley and toward the door. “Cool. We’ll get you one. We’ll get you two. Then you’ll tell me what’s up. And you say it has to do with…”

  Omar was interrupted when they reached the St
arbucks door and a pair of green-shirted holographic people appeared.

  “Welcome to Starbucks!” said the one on the door’s right, a thin woman with blonde hair.

  The hispanic hologram on the left shoved something in front of Doc’s face. It looked like a giant sugar packet. “How would you like to experience the full flavor of a freshly made Starbucks latte at home?”

  “Fuck off,” said Omar.

  They pushed directly through the holograms. Unperturbed, the holograms followed them and continued to pitch the instant latte packets while Doc and Omar descended a moving walkway to the lower level, where the coffee shop spread out, free of the confining streets above.

  The lobby was small by Starbucks standards, seemingly only a hundred yards square. Beam posts were spaced throughout the sitting space, which occupied most of the store. The posts were really only for people who wanted or needed to plug in, and most modern Starbucks had removed them and gone fully to Fi connections. Only the oldest handhelds and tablets operated at substandard Fi speeds, and these days, almost nobody brought tablets with them anyway. Doc never carried one outside his apartment. Why would he? As long as your Beam ID was clean, your data was encrypted and stored on The Beam, accessible wherever you wanted it via any public screen. Sure, some people were paranoid and kept their data on slip drives or personal devices, but those were the same people who still used printers.

  A green-shirted, obese male hologram walked up and stood in front of Doc and Omar. Doc was annoyed. He just wanted to sit and have some coffee. He was in no mood to deal with these fucking things.

  “Welcome to Starbucks!” said the hologram. “What can I…?”

  “Fuck off,” said Doc, taking a page from Omar’s book. He walked straight at the hologram, collided with it, and bounced off.

  “Just using The Beam, then?” said the hologram — who, judging by his nametag, was actually a clerk named Greg.

  “Sorry,” said Doc. “I thought you weren’t there.”

  “I just want a trenta coffee. Black,” said Omar. He looked at Doc, then apologetically toward the clerk. “What you want, Doc?”