by Russ Linton
Staggering off the bed takes an effort my aching limbs don't seem to have. I slump hard against the door. More muffled speech I can't make out sloshes on the other side. Grabbing the tray, I take hold of the crusty brick of...stuff. Remnants fished from a garbage disposal, if I have to guess.
"Tell me there's a smartphone baked in here. Tell me I'm touching this for a reason."
The peephole slides open, and the guard peers inside. Words penetrate this time though I strain to pick out the meaning through a heavy accent.
"No phone."
"Thought I'd get a phone call. Isn't that how this works?"
"Ain't no phones working."
"Anywhere?"
"Deader'n a buck on a scale citywide, maybe further." Next part is easier to understand as my ear adjusts. "All communications are official use only."
"My rights aren't considered official use?"
"Whatever the fuck you done out there, you surrendered those."
The peephole slams shut.
MY WORLD BECOMES EIGHTY square feet. The overhead bulb stays off. Sun and the permanent Aurora offer my only light source. Meals come once every day. Refusals of phone calls come more often.
The gag-inducing bricks become my way to count the passage of time. Stacked against the wall, their height tells me exactly how long I've been forgotten: seven bricks to a stack, one week for each of the three stacks. Whatever happened outside must be worse than I imagined.
Could be I've gotten exactly what I wanted, and I’m lost down here, left to decompose, unlike my indestructible meals. With inmate records and court systems a mess, I wouldn't be surprised if the guards themselves had no clue who was behind these doors.
Sleep could make this semi-bearable. Lost in a dream, maybe Mom could finally reach me. Charlotte's powers always seemed to work best when her targets surrendered to the lawless universe of REM cycles.
Mom. She'd been struggling with controlling those powers. But she must have recovered by now. I feel certain she's escaped. At night, I call out to Mom. Hound. Danger. Even Polybius. Nobody answers.
When guards deliver the meals, I can hear them coming, and I wait beside the door. Some days, they don't come at all. A pair of eyes and a fresh tray are the high point of my day. The guards usually don't answer questions, only slam the little shutters. When I shout, they grow angry. I don't get my brick.
Used to be, I'd hear the growl of generators beyond the door every so often and see light through the cracks. This happens less and less. The number of different eyes grows fewer too and the ones remaining are bloodshot and haggard. One finally tells me Aurora's blast affected more than a few blocks or even the city. Martial law has been declared nationwide. My personal rights are irrelevant.
Even if I had a phone call, who would it be to? I could contact Emily. I hadn't mentioned we were headed to Detroit. Martin's money and high-powered legal team would be helpful right about now. Any other time, the death of the Crimson Mask would've been front page news. Emily might've come looking for me. But in this blackout limbo, she'll be as clueless as everyone else.
She can't find out about Dad this way. This is my mess. She'd been smart to avoid the world of Augments.
What did they do with his body? Is he locked in one of those little freezers? Have the Feds come to carve him up? I can't ask. There's still the chance they don't know who I am.
I've eaten pieces of the mealy bricks. There's water too. Let a piece soak, and I can pretend to be choking down a hearty soup gone cold, a trick I learned in the bunker.
Continual dark makes it impossible to tell if I've slept. Daylight through the tiny window is feeble. Staring at the sliver only imprints my retina to the point I never know if my eyes are closed.
From experience, I can say living in spaces like this works best with a computer. Doesn't even need to be top of the line. The terminal at the bunker had been the height of Soviet technology circa 1960. I made do.
Night falls. The mild phosphorescence of Aurora's glow bleeds across the ceiling and pools on the sheets. Dangling the yellowed sheets over the edge of the bed, I notice a perfect rectangle taking shape, glowing like an ancient monochrome display. I sit and stare.
A shuddering prompt forms in the undulating light. I grope for a keyboard, and my hands find one, old and square with harsh, brittle edges. Hunched over, I explore what's left of the world outside.
Not every system can be down. Some systems survived. I know this because I saved more than a few in our brief Cyberwar. Lots of those were government property and hardened against EMP attacks. This is also obvious because...because...I'm logged in. Logged in somewhere.
Server MOTDs scroll by followed by password prompts and challenges from highly secure systems. The digital realm outside matches my aging terminal, devolved into the early days of the ARPANET and NCP when those first baby steps linked networks across the globe.
Welcome to my web.
Chroma. She could be unstoppable in this simpleton's environment. Simultaneous control over a vast global network of computers, or what's left of them, and she's straight up Skynet. But her manipulations had taken some measurable amount of time and effort. I load up the logs from our Cyberwar. Her work can be traced through the digital routes and pathways. She isn't quite all-encompassing. Not yet.
I visualize the ports she frequented, patterns she followed, all her little tricks which left Eric in awe and me in terror. I dive through lines of our code, recompiled in my head. Too hard. I start to input them into my computer.
Chroma works like a hacker though she has no need to spoof an IP to hide her point of origin. She is the point of origin, any address her home turf. As Eric had said, she became the internet. Wiggling her toes, lifting up, crawling on hands and knees, walking. Had she gotten to a full run before Aurora changed the game?
More bricks come. I can't stop to neatly stack them anymore. I've got a purpose. A puzzle to work through which might help rebuild the world I've destroyed. I never should have freed them. Never trusted Eric to get over his weeaboo fascination with an entity like her. Star class. Off the charts power. Unleashed. Unchained. Nothing but a danger to us all.
I will fix this.
If I can help rebuild the world, Chroma must be stopped. The other Augments, decommissioned. The first task, I can do. Right here with nothing but my QWERTY keyboard and a box full of boards and processors. For the second task, I'll need an edge. More than a multitool.
So first, Chroma. I'll need to cripple her. I mash out a few models on the keyboard and review the data. Packet anomalies, extra latency, they're barely measurable but were present with every little twitch and flex she made during our cyber defense. Those signs can show when she's hitching a ride.
More bricks tumble through the opening. Two, three, a dozen. Despite being able to clearly see their pitted, mealy surface in the glow of my monitor, I gnaw on them, zombie-like while I work. An answer forms. All it would take to keep her out is a specialized firewall. I'm nearly there.
A resonate clang shakes my nerves free and sends a jolt through my spine. Light overwhelms my monitor. I'm forced to squint and let my eighty square feet reassemble into the cold, barren room. A guard. I never heard the boots.
Bricks shift in front of the door, spilling into the hallway. A careful arrangement of half-eaten ones stands against one wall. I've lost track of the count. Maybe a dozen stacks? I'm sitting on the floor beside my bunk with the sheet dangling to form a screen, another stale food brick mashed and prodded into flakes in my lap.
"Your lawyer's ready to see you."
I stare at the guard like he's an alien. He doesn't react, which does little to convince me he isn't one. Standing, I brush the crumbs off my pants. I approach with wrists extended, palms up. As he clicks the handcuffs into place, I see him eye my blanket computer.
"It's got a password. Don't even bother." I smile. I wish I could tell if I were joking.
CHAPTER 3
WE DRIVE TO THE COURTHOUS
E in absolute darkness. The prison bus headlights provide a glimpse of the wounded world outside. No street lamps glow, every building a lifeless husk, all submerged under Aurora's liquid green night. I mostly sit in awe. Somehow, I'm still in prison only somebody has removed the roof.
The city can't spare enough employees to shuttle inmates, and the bus is overcrowded. With a forty-to-two ratio for the guards, we're assured that military checkpoints will be alerted of any deviation to the bus route. Anybody in prison orange gets shot on sight in this brave new world of perpetual curfew. None of the prisoners attempt a mutiny.
A shock of white hair bobs near the front. Beside him, a dark, close-cropped head raked with a puckered gash. Both guards are focused on that one row. Could it be? Hound? Danger? I didn't see them when we boarded.
Gasps escape inmates' lips. Electricity pumps through the temporary courthouse transforming the boring facade into a beacon in the abyss. Inside the prison, my guess had been only emergencies prompted the use of the backup generators. Shadowy in the day, an inky lair of whispers at night, we're all suddenly cavemen staring at fire. The bus squeals to a stop and prisoners are on their feet before I can find Hound again.
We're shuffled off the bus one at a time. "Keep moving," a guard yells, shoving the awestruck into the lit parking lot. "Two hours is all the juice they've got. If you ain't seen a judge by then, you're goin' back." Soldiers, portable barricades, and barbed wire reinforce the threat.
Prisoners crowd the rotunda, forming a line which snakes around and down a side hall. A bank of inactive metal detectors sits beside the entrance. Handcuffed prisoners trudge through without a sound. Each one gets patted down by soldiers carrying automatic weapons.
There he is, Hound. His hair matches his scruffy stubble, grains of salt pressed against skin. He's already traced an arc through the air with his nose and pinpointed me. Beside him, the guy who can sidestep danger appears to have led with his face this time. Bruises swell his cheek, and one eye is sealed shut in a puffy mass of purpled flesh. I wonder if there's a cosmic debt Danger has to pay, or if his powers were compromised by Cyrus more than he thought.
They mill about near the inactive metal detectors to give me a chance to catch up.
"What's going on? My Mom? Polybius?"
Danger gives me plenty of space as I violate his need to stay invisible. Hound scowls and shakes his head. "Haven't seen 'em. Keep yer head down here. Do whatever they say to get out of this mess."
"They?" I ask. "Somebody else you're working for? Were you working for them in Detroit when you and Danger went solo?" Pent-up anger from weeks in solitary and desperation to talk to someone, anyone, about what happened, causes the accusation to come out louder than anticipated. Soldiers look our way. Danger melts into the line ahead. Hound puts on a fair military ten-hut to allay suspicion even as he continues to answer me under his breath.
"We did what needed doin'. The group was a mess. Your buddy was compromised. We wanted inside."
I try to follow his example and slip in behind, whispering low and knowing he'll catch every word. "What happened to Danger?"
"Guards worked 'em over, tried to get him to spill the beans."
We're up to the deactivated metal detectors. The soldier looks Hound up and down. "Captain Raffens, sir, you're with me."
They've already got Danger by one arm. Three soldiers, ready to drag them off to who knows where. I step up to follow. A soldier puts a hand in my face.
"I'm with them," I say.
"Lucky you," he replies. He wags a finger at another guard. "You've been selected for screening."
"Maybe—" I've started to speak, and his hand cinches around my arm. "Maybe you should ask my lawyer, first? They said I had a lawyer."
I yank free. Hound tenses. Danger shakes his head with knowing certainty. The soldier's grip hardens. Clearly, he's not in the mood to take any shit. Laced up, I'm spun painfully around and shoved out of line.
"I got him," the soldier says to another who steps up to the post.
"Okay, fuck! I'll walk!" I've got no say about where we're going. Nearby inmates watch apathetically. A few chuckle. The soldier doesn't get off my heels until he's dragged me into an adjacent office. We wind through a cubicle farm, and he tosses me inside a small room labeled "Interview One."
"I better not see any latex gloves! I've...I've got an allergy," I shout at the door slamming in my face.
"Trust me, you'd want the gloves."
I spin toward a woman's voice. Two women occupy the other side of the room. One is seated; the other standing. Neither looks prepped for a cavity search, which is a relief. The one sitting down looks like she could be this lawyer I've heard about. The other, the one who spoke, she's a little less polished.
She does look cavity search-capable. Propped on the edge of a small table, arms crossed, she gives off a "shields up" vibe. Tall, lean, her skin is a silky onyx save one cheek. Raised and a deeper black than even her dark complexion, in the right lighting the disfiguration could be nothing more than an unfortunate birthmark. An ill-fitting pantsuit gives the impression she stumbled out of somebody else's closet. She's split the seam on the dress pants just to get on a pair of steel-toed combat boots. She kicks out a chair meant for me.
"Please, sit," says the other woman.
Aside from a few telltale creases near her eyes and mouth, the seated woman's age is hard to determine. However, she's got a stern librarian air which compliments the pair of thin-rimmed reading glasses. She slips them partway down her nose to complete the mental picture.
When I hesitate, she pats a bag atop the table. Past the evidence sticker, I see my clothes and my multi-tool. But there's one more item. A streak of crimson has me fumbling for the chair.
The lawyer wields a tablet and begins tapping as I lose focus on the room. My hand inches toward the evidence bag. Her eyes dart up to take in my expression. She closes then briefly as nods her approval. That's enough for me. I snatch the bag, ripping plastic while she speaks.
"This court hearing is a formality," she says. "You are Spencer Alexander, a contractor and soon to be full-time employee of Nanomech, Inc. Do you understand?"
I nod mutely. The mask comes out first, the ashen surface, gritty.
"You have been charged with terrorism, arson—"
"I didn't burn anything." My protest is mechanical. In this moment, the mask is the only thing in the room. What was once jet black has become spent charcoal. One splotch of darkness remains alongside rusted, sickly brown spatters. "It wasn't my fault."
The lady across the table holds out a handkerchief. A tear I didn't know was there drips on the mask, bringing back the solid black. Wordlessly, I accept her offer, and for a moment, our eyes meet. Stern and hard by my first reckoning, they've softened.
"Thanks," I tell her.
The softness fades. "With the speed at which this country is falling apart, those who burn down buildings are frowned upon. But facilities are so overwhelmed, anybody charged with non-violent offenses is being released. You will plead guilty to trespassing. Nanomech will pay a fine." Her eyes are on me once more, and I can't return the courtesy. "You need to listen and agree. Do you understand?"
Trespassing. That's all. I feel the gun in my hand and the taste of gunpowder on my lips. The slight burn against the web of my fingers as the hammer falls again and again.
The lady standing beside the table taps her booted foot. "Get on with this," she says.
"I need to know he's agreed," says the lawyer, "or there is no deal."
A deal? Strings. Always strings. Xamse works like that. I've got no clue what he held over Dad other than keeping his Augment containment operation up and running. He was just trying to do the right thing. Clean up my mess. And like it was with Dad, Xamse is my best bet. The dude's loaded. Has connections. If necessary, he can keep me and Mom off the government's hit list.
I clear my throat. This seems to break the standoff. "I understand."
The lady at
the table continues. "As a contractor for Nanomech Inc., you were investigating rogue signals from the Easttown Theater which had been plaguing the company network. Tracking the activity led you to a nearby motel, ostensibly closed for business. From there, a rogue Augment cell had been plotting their terrorist attack for months—"
"How bad is it?" I interrupt. "Outside, how bad?"
She lowers the tablet and removes her glasses. "The northern half of the United States and much of the western seaboard lost all power. Failovers knocked out stations even further south. Our allies have been crippled by the overnight loss of banks and financial services centered here in the U.S. Our enemies have been emboldened. China, as it turns out," she sighs and rubs her temples, "manufactures many of the critical infrastructure components needed to restore power."
"How long before things are repaired?"
"Months. Years. We don't have an estimate," she says and slides her glasses up with a firm push. "We need to continue."
I nod. I can't speak. I've sat through these types of briefings for years with my parents. Most families would have a movie night or a fancy dinner. We'd sit on the couch and review cover stories in preparation for the kind of move where we geographically changed places, but never truly went anywhere.
She eyes her pad and continues with her earlier cover story. "Internal strife in this Augment terrorist cell led them to quarrel. The force of their destructive rage started the fire and ultimately was the source of the dramatic events which led to the failure of our nation's power grid."
The story erases anything Dad tried to do with the Whispering Pines team. Dead as a terrorist.
"Do you understand?" she asks.
"Answer her." The one beside me inches closer, her hand sliding into my dislocated view and gripping the table's edge.
"How long was I in jail?"
"Answer her question!" Bad cop palm strikes the table with a jarring slap.
"Three months," my interviewer answers, an open hand extended to calm her friend.
