by Paul Neilan
“I’ll do what I can,” I said.
“Find her before Charlie Horse does,” she said, blowing on the pyre, scattering the ribbons like confetti. “He’s hard on the ones who run. Real hard.”
“How about you?” I said. “Ever think about getting out?”
“I’m working on it,” she said.
We drank our drinks down.
“Stan Volga says he’s in love with her,” I said.
“I’ve heard that before,” she said. “All of us have. It doesn’t mean much, if it means anything.”
“The same old song,” I said, looking up at the sailors, lured to catastrophe.
“It’s your own fault,” Aoki said, admiring the sirens. “You boys always assume we’re singing for you.”
* * *
Charlie Horse was running a shakedown operation at Fatales. Anna was involved. That didn’t tell me what she’d taken from Stan Volga. I was pretty sure it was more than just his heart. And it didn’t explain why Aoki was so quick to offer up an address to a guy she barely knew. She had no reason to trust me. I was wondering why she did when I came to the building.
Two thirty-three Mariposa was a four-story brick with rusted fire escapes and a busted front door. Apartment #5 was on the first floor, facing the back. I knocked, gave it a minute. Then I jimmied the flimsy lock, shut the door behind me.
It was a small studio with plank floors and bare walls. There was a mattress in the corner, a wooden crate turned on its side for an end table. A brittle lavender plant in the window that wasn’t going to make it on its own.
There was nothing worth stealing in the medicine cabinet. Nothing for me to eat in the fridge. The garbage had been emptied. There were no screens. No pictures. Nothing personal about the place. It could’ve been anybody’s. It could’ve been mine.
I turned the ceiling fan on to stir the stale air. Watered the lavender. Opened a window. Stood there for a while, listening to the dogs bark in the rain.
I lay down on the mattress, watched the ceiling fan spin above me. Thought about how little I knew about Anna or Stan Volga. I must’ve closed my eyes, drifted off. When I opened them I was staring into the muzzle of a gun.
I didn’t move, didn’t blink.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. What happened to you, Harrigan? I miss that old face you used to make.”
“Morning, Evie,” I said.
She used to wake me up like that sometimes, a gun to my head. Sometimes it was the middle of the night. Sometimes she’d pull the trigger, unloaded, and I’d hear the deafening click again and again as she laughed and laughed. Sometimes it was a water pistol and I’d get drenched. Either way, I never flinched. Not once. But she always swore she could see the fear on my face.
Do one thing every day that scares you, Harrigan.
It’s not supposed to be opening your eyes.
Of course it is.
“What are you doing, Harrigan?” Evie said, lowering the gun. She was all in black, a stiff collar up around her throat. She’d cut her hair since I’d seen her last. “Playing Goldilocks in someone else’s bed?”
“I wanted to meet the bears,” I said. “Didn’t think you’d be one of them. When did you start working for Charlie Horse?”
She let out a laugh.
“Me? Working for Charlie Horse?” she said, still laughing. “Oh, Harrigan. You poor thing. You’re so far behind you’re almost caught up.”
She pulled a slender chain from around her neck. Showed me the gold signet ring, the image of a scorpion, dangling.
“Zodiac?” I said. It was my turn to laugh. “Evelyn Faraday’s gone corporate? Now I know what’s killing your father.”
She gave me a lopsided grin, climbed over me into the bed. Her hip grazed mine as she settled beside me.
“You heard about old Clyde, huh?” she said, staring up at the ceiling.
“I went to see him,” I said.
“Did he know you?” she said.
“It took him a while,” I said.
“Let me guess,” Evie said. “He was too busy feeling sorry for himself to even notice you were there.” She shook her head.
“It was the same after my mom left. He never said a word,” she said. “He bought me an Easy-Bake Oven for my birthday that year. And every year after. I had a stack of them in my closet by the time I was twelve. Not one of them opened. He never noticed.”
“Probably why you can’t cook,” I said.
“Probably why I can’t do a lot of things,” she said. “And you’re one to talk. How do you think it was when you took off?”
I didn’t say anything. She turned her head to look at me.
“You just about broke the old man’s heart,” she said. “Mine too. You were my rock, Harrigan. You still are.”
She reached her hand up, touched my face.
“You’re the one I want to throw through a window,” she said. “The one I want to kick down the street in front of me as I walk to my friend’s house in the rain.”
She slapped my cheek, twice. Her hand was soft.
“I want to skip you across a lake, see how many times you bounce before you sink,” she said. “I want to watch a sweaty convict break you with a sledgehammer.”
“Wear me on your finger. Use me to hurt somebody,” I said. “I got out of that game, Evie.”
“Shame,” she said. “You were good.”
She was better. I’d never tell her.
The fan spun above us.
“So what are you doing here, Harrigan?” she said.
“Looking for somebody,” I said. “How about you?”
“I’ve been sitting on the building, waiting for Anna to come back,” Evie said. “Zodiac has an interest.”
“What kind of interest?” I said.
She watched the fan turn. Laced her hands behind her head.
“I pulled your file,” she said. “I have that kind of access now.”
“Anything good?” I said.
“No,” she said. “Have you been on Grid lately? Unofficially?”
I looked at her. “I used a dummy.”
“You are a dummy,” she said. “They run sweeps, Harrigan. You got dragged.”
She turned her head to look at me.
“You Unaligneds are all the same,” she said. “Your Score was already Borderline. You’re scheduled for Assessment.”
“Assessment?” I said. “Fuck. When?”
“About an hour,” she said.
I watched her smile break wide open.
“There he is,” Evie said. “Atta boy, Harrigan. There’s that old face again.”
* * *
The last round of online data hacks and security breaches let Zodiac roll out Grid. It slipped over the old internet infrastructure like permeable scaffolding, streamlining the pathways and safeguarding the system. Platforms and popular sites were folded into the Grid simulations like origami. It was all the same material, just in a less random, more coherent shape. The more time you spent on it, the more tailored it became to your specifications. It got to know you. It fit like a second skin.
The initial rollout was so successful it bled over into the everyday almost immediately. Almost seamlessly. You lived your life on Grid. You were never off it. Scores were how you kept track of your progress. A combination credit rating and social metric comprising Wellness, Optimization and Compliance, it was a measure of your best you. Through a series of public/private partnerships, Wellness clinics, Optimization centers and Compliance depots popped up in every neighborhood to aid already overwhelmed city resources. It was quick. Convenient. There was an Aries security force to supplement local law enforcement, part of Zodiac’s Augment and Assist initiative. Their Aquarius tech division took charge of the surveillance apparatus already in place. Everybody had a screen on their wall or in their pocket. There were cameras on all the corners, leased to fragmented city agencies. The same setups in buildings and stores, satellites drifting overhead. All of them
portals to Grid. Zodiac consolidated the data streams, enabled wholesale tracking, to guide you on your way.
Almost nobody minded. They had nothing to hide. They wanted to be safe. More than that, they wanted to be seen and heard. They wanted to be followed. Zodiac. Be the star you are. Find your constellation. Know your tribe.
The online cacophony of conflicting narratives and warring truths was eclipsed by one voice, your own, amplified and projected back at you, filtered through Grid’s intersecting feedback loops. The higher your Score, the better your chance of being given a ring. That got you in the door of their exclusive club, with its own set of perks and privileges. The Zodiac elite. You were on board. It meant you belonged. It gave almost everyone something to strive for.
The ones who didn’t were Unaligned. They’d never been granted a sign. Their data sets were unleveraged and unquantified. You could get by on the outside, but it wasn’t easy. Grid was everywhere, always encroaching. It got to know you, whether you liked it or not. Zodiac was always watching. Your Score followed you. Any dips or transgressions could trigger Assessment, a check-in where they made sure you were optimizing and not a danger to yourself or others. It was almost humane, like those homeless roundups in winter when they’re all trucked to shelters whether they like it or not. Only Zodiac knew when it dipped below freezing. When it was your turn to be saved.
The screen in my pocket had been vibrating for twelve blocks. I walked in my front door. Poured a drink. Sat down at my table. Picked up.
“There you are,” the voice of the inquisitor AI said, cold and clinical. “I’m pleased I finally caught you. I was beginning to be concerned.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You have been selected by Zodiac for Assessment. This is due to deficient components of Wellness, Compliance, and Optimization, all of which make up your Score. You have reached a current threshold of Borderline, necessitating Assessment. Please do not be alarmed. I assure you, this is all quite routine.”
The modulation line on the screen rose and fell, tracing every word.
I didn’t say anything.
“For your comfort and ease of use, might I suggest switching to a larger screen?” the voice said.
“This is my only screen,” I said.
“A handheld?” the voice said. “Interesting.”
There was a pause.
“Assessment will consist of a series of questions,” the voice said. “Please answer to the best of your knowledge and abilities. And do be aware that nonanswers are considered their own form of answer. Do you consent to Assessment?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Silence is consent,” the voice said, cold and clinical.
The screen hummed in my hand.
“Initiating Assessment,” the voice said. “What three words would you use to describe yourself?”
It was the wrong move. I knew it. I made it anyway.
“I am Harrigan,” I said.
There was a pause.
“And what three words would someone else use to describe you?” the voice said.
“He is Harrigan,” I said.
“As you may be aware, Wellness, Compliance, and Optimization diagnostics are built into the architecture of Grid,” the voice said with an edge. “Grid usage answers many of these questions implicitly, thereby obviating the need for Assessment. Your Score is positively impacted by usage. Something as simple as checking your Score affects your Score in a constructive manner. Participation is important. Have you been making constructive use of Grid?”
“I get by on my own,” I said.
“Grid is a community of users,” the voice said. “Isolation from Grid may be considered a Wellness red flag. Would you say that you’re depressed?”
“I prefer ‘disconsolate,’” I said.
“Do you find the glass to be half full or half empty?” the voice said.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m not thirsty.”
There was a pause.
“Have you had any recent financial problems?” the voice said.
“Not me,” I said. “I’m flush.”
“Any difficulties paying your rent, perhaps?” the voice said, interested.
“I was behind,” I said. “I’m square now.”
“And yet the damage may already have been done,” the voice said. “Remaining current on your obligations is integral to Compliance. These obligations can be better managed when Grid is engaged, through targeted advertisements and simulations. There are quantifiable benefits to using Grid. These benefits may be social, financial, even cognitive. Staying on Grid keeps your mind sharp.”
“I don’t want something sharp in my head,” I said. “Sounds dangerous.”
There was a pause.
“As a reminder, you may be remanded if your Score falls below Borderline,” the voice said, touched with menace. “You are currently on this threshold.”
Remanded. I knew what that meant. Conditioning. Counseling. Consignment to a halfway house. Institutionalization. All in the name of Wellness, Compliance, and Optimization. It was for your own good. It was all voluntary, until it wasn’t. There were rumors of chop shops on the outskirts, off-Grid operations where the Borderlines disappeared.
Remanded. The word hung there like a limp body dangling from a noose.
“Assessment initial recommendation: Get on Grid. Participate. Simulate. Cultivate. Remember, a checked Score is an increased Score,” the voice said, cold and clinical. “Your results will be reviewed. Further recommendation forthcoming.”
Pull yourself together, Harrigan, or we’ll do it for you. What the straitjacket says right before it’s buckled.
The voice went silent. The screen was dark. I sat at my table for a while. Looking for Anna had tipped Zodiac to me. I’d been close to invisible. So was she. Now I’d been seen. That’s what happens when you peek, try to see. It was almost funny if you didn’t think about it too hard. I wasn’t laughing. I had another drink.
* * *
I did some digging on Maxwells, the place Charlie Horse had mentioned. It was owned by a few shell companies that were run by a few more. A tangle of off-Grid subsidiaries. Underneath it all I found a name. Charles Horschetti. It was as good a place as any to track him down.
That night I got to Maxwells early, staked myself to a spot in the back where I could watch the door. There were no screens on any of the walls. Just a darkened stage up front, a lonely microphone craned at the edge. Charlie Horse came in a little before nine. He stopped at the bar, then took a seat at a small table in the middle of the room.
The place wasn’t full but there were a few people haunting the walls or hunkered at tables, casting furtive glances at the microphone. At nine a spotlight snapped on the stage, stark and sudden.
Charlie Horse stood, made his way up front. I followed him.
He took the stage.
I took his chair.
He lowered the microphone with both hands, unhurried, looked out at the crowd. When he saw me his mouth tightened before slipping into a smile.
“Death is nothing to be afraid of,” Charlie Horse said. “It’s all part of being human. As natural as being born. The circle of life, you know? You just need to be ready for it. Like the Boy Scouts say, you’ve got to be prepared. Me? I plan to go out the same way I came in, in the delivery room. Screaming my fucking head off, surrounded by strangers and covered in blood. The rest of you can join me in three…two…”
He looked out at the crowd.
“I’m just messing with you,” Charlie Horse said. “It’s not gonna be like that. Not for anybody in this room. I used a really small amount of C4, and I only put it under one of the chairs. You’ll all be fine. Except for that guy over there.”
He pointed at me, grinning.
“He’s gonna be everywhere,” Charlie Horse said. “They’ll be mopping pieces of him up for weeks. The rest of you’ll probably just lose some limbs and bleed all over yourselves. But hey, the dry
cleaning bills are on me. Now everybody except that guy say ‘bionic arms and legs’ in three…two…”
Charlie Horse waited for a laugh that never came, stepped off the stage.
“Tough crowd,” I said as he sat across the table from me. “Although you did threaten to kill them.”
“Not all of them,” he said, smoothing back his slick hair. “Just you.”
“Where’s Santos?” I said.
“I never bring him,” Charlie Horse said. “He gets mad when nobody laughs. Me? I like a hostile crowd. Tightens things up. Besides, I don’t need Santos to take you apart, Harrigan.”
He let his jacket flap open, showed me the gun inside.
“Santos is Zodiac,” I said. “I saw the Taurus ring. Thought you ran independent, Charlie.”
“Ring don’t mean a fucking thing. Me and Santos go back. He knows who calls the shots. Who pulls the fucking trigger,” he said. “Now where the fuck is my Danish?”
“She’s gone,” I said.
“I know she’s gone, dipshit,” he said. “It’s your job to bring her back. That’s how this fucking works.”
“I’m not the only one looking,” I said.
“Shh,” Charlie Horse said, nodding towards the stage. “Don’t be rude.”
An older guy in a frayed priest’s collar took the stage, bent his face to the microphone.
“I love that ‘Footprints’ poem,” he said. “Where the guy’s on the beach with God looking back on his life and he sees that at the most difficult times there’s only one set of tracks in the sand and he says, Why, Lord? Where were You then, when I needed You most? And God says, I was carrying you. That’s God’s love talking. His divine and infinite patience. Because you know He was really thinking, Are you fucking kidding Me? The creator of the universe takes you out for a stroll, and you’re gonna give Him shit for it? Because you don’t see a footprint? I’m God. You know I can fly, right?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I can also turn this place into Normandy. Like that [snap].”
“What? I—”
“See a footprint on your ass, you sass Me again.”
“That’s the Rev,” Charlie Horse said as the old man shuffled offstage. “You need somebody for your funeral, he’s your guy. Could be pretty fucking soon the way you’re going, Harrigan.”
