Deadwire

by A K Blake

  He passed a woman crying on the way to the train, but thought nothing of it at the time. Surely it was personal stuff, none of his business. However, he began to notice strange occurrences on his walk from the station to work, people stopped in the middle of the street, looking at their spores or huddled together, shock etched across their faces. An unusual number of people seemed to be crying, and he passed a group of men drinking in the middle of the night right next to a police officer, who indulgently looked the other way.

  Suspicious, he opened the back door to the arena, flicking open his spore as he headed down the cement steps, only to run head-on into Phek. But rather than snapping at him, as he would usually have done, Phek sighed heavily and gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder.

  “Hey there, Luca, how you holding up? I tried to catch you before you left for work, but I guess you didn’t check your spore. Games are cancelled tonight, you can go on home,”

  “What? The games are cancelled? But it’s the last night of the jubilee. I mean, I’m not complaining, but…”

  Phek’s expression changed immediately, almost back to the normal Phek, outraged and condescending a the same time.

  “You didn’t see? Her Majesty is dead. The games have been cancelled out of respect. We’ll be closed for at least a week during official mourning. Where have you been, do you not check the news?”

  “I was at...I didn’t see.”

  His expression again softening, Phek sighed. “Well I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news. Nothing to be done for it now.”

  He continued on his way, climbing up the steps past Luca, but stopped when he saw that Luca wasn’t following.

  “You coming?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I am.”

  They walked up the stairs in silence, emerging into a clear night that seemed a deliberate betrayal under the circumstances. Surely it should be raining, the water slashing down like daggers. Surely the weather should be in mourning as well. Though he had never met her, Luca felt a deep and already nostalgic sadness. Basilla was the only Queen he had ever known, the image of her on the news and in school books the only representation of royalty he could imagine, or that his parents or even their grandparents could imagine. For her human subjects at least, she had seemed like the only Queen who had ever existed, enduring and unchanging, as impartial and removed from them as a god. To have her ripped away, when threats were looming their highest, when they needed her the most, felt as if the fabric of the world had been ripped from under him. The Queen, their warrior, was dead.

  Yet, some small, horrible part of him was glad. He mostly tried not to wonder what the messenger could want with the deadwire codes, tried to rationalize it away as vampire business, told himself they would get what they wanted with or without him, and he might as well take what he could. But with this news, skulking at the edges of his grief like a grave robber, came relief. Should the information he passed along be used for evil, at least it would not be Her Majesty he was disappointing.

  ***

  As soon as he arrived home it hit him: the arena would be empty for at least a full week. That was seven nights in which no one would be around, seven nights he could use to take another crack at the GroundCom access codes.

  Newly determined, he opened his digital textbook again, using the search function to research various startup sequences and compare them with the pictures of the terminal he’d taken. On his initial attempt, it had seemed impossible, none of the words lining up for a direct translation. He had quickly become overwhelmed and given up. Now, however, he had a purpose and, more importantly, a deadline. It couldn’t be that difficult. He just needed to focus. He could do this…

  Luca awoke nearly two hours later, grateful that his spore was waterproof, as he had drooled all over the screen. Well, he supposed anything worth doing couldn’t be accomplished in one night. After all, he did have at least seven…his spore vibrated.

  You free?

  It was Mykal. Luca had noticed his messages had become more terse lately, direct and to the point. He couldn’t blame him. He knew he was a lousy partner these days, distracted and even more drugged out than Mykal, sleepless and puffy-faced. He was expecting a breakup speech any night. In truth it would be a relief, like so many other things he wished would simply be taken out of his hands.

  Yet, tonight Mykal surprised him. Perhaps it was the Queen’s death, looming over them all as reminder of their imminent mortality, or perhaps he was simply more or less high than usual, but he was like the old Mykal again: thoughtful, gentle. He caught Luca up into a full embrace, his long, warm body thrust against his, the planes of his stomach and thighs pressing against Luca as if to test the limits of his shape. He kissed him, cradling and caressing Luca, so that it felt as if by his touch he was coaxing him back into being.

  “I missed you. I heard about Basilla, and all I could think about was you.”

  Hearing those words, words that without realizing it he had been waiting for, freed Luca somehow, releasing in him the love he had always been wanting to give. It made him capable of a glimmer of his old self. He felt clear-headed, lighter, bursting with emotion.

  “I missed you too.”

  And then they were kissing, Mykal hot and strong against him, wrestling as they struggled to sink into each other, pulling their clothes off until they couldn’t tell where their individual skins ended or began.

  ***

  The happy feeling faded quickly. Mykal was already awake when Luca woke up, sitting naked on the edge of the bed, a corner of Luca’s sheet drawn over his massive thighs. He was motionless, yet something about the set of his shoulders and the angle of his face told Luca something was wrong. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly. Was this it? One last tryst, and then Mykal was gone forever?

  “The Ithscans attacked.”

  “What?”

  “Bastards. They couldn’t even wait until she was buried. Those cowards!”

  “What...what happened?”

  “They fired on an outpost at Ichel during the day. They hide in the day, attack unprovoked, not two nights after she died. Savages.”

  Luca had never seen him so angry, had in fact rarely seen Mykal display much emotion about anything. He was always laid back, chill and collected. The effect now was disturbing, his wide caramel eyes, normally so soulful, illuminated with fury, the pupils enlarged so that they were more black than brown. His lips were bared, his fangs not fully extended, but the tips of his canines were noticeably long and razor sharp. Luca found himself suddenly afraid. This was not the overgrown puppy dog Luca had grown accustomed to. He looked more like a beast.

  “Were there any...casualties?”

  “Just read it yourself.”

  Luca picked up the spore from where Mykal had thrown it like a piece of garbage, scanning the article.

  ...reports are numerous and difficult to verify, it does seem clear that troops on the ground sustained significant casualties. Though the total number is unknown at this time, it is thought that there have been at least nine soldiers killed and many more wounded.

  One top military expert has speculated that robots may have been used by the enemy, due to the precision and spread of the wounds. On at least a few of the dead, the bullets appeared to follow a specific pattern difficult to replicate with current handheld technology. This is under investigation, as the use of intelligent or semi-intelligent machines in warfare was banned by the Continental Sodality of Accords less than a decade ago. If there were proof that the enemy is violating this agreement, it would be cause for the other member countries of the Sodality to intervene.

  Prince Phiancaris, due to be crowned within the month, following the funeral of Her Majesty, has yet to speak regarding the attack,. He is expected to do so within the hour.

  “It’s...horrible.”

  “I have to go.”

  Mykal stood up abruptly, flickering around the room to gather his clothes and putting them on before Luca had time to eve
n pull on a pair of pants. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then rushed at Luca and kissed him.

  “Sorry, this has just...got me pretty upset.”

  “It’s fine, I understand. I could come with you if you want some company…”

  “No. No, I think I need to be alone. I’ll message you.”

  “Ok, bye.”

  With that he was out the door, only the wind of his wake left like a cold slap across Luca’s face.

  ***

  It was several more nights before Luca could no longer avoid the GroundCom translations. However, as a positive side effect, his apartment was spotless, every inch cleaned and organized. He had also gotten caught up on Lively Nights and managed to clumsily mend a few rips in his clothes. It was amazing how productive procrastination could make a person.

  His spore vibrated. Phek. The arena would be reopening earlier than expected to prepare for a new segment in which several of the most popular pro gladiators, dressed in Laemian military uniforms, massacred a group of prisoners dressed like Ithscans. Mr. Nodatu anticipated ratings even higher than those from the jubilee. Suddenly the time he had lost procrastinating seemed immense. This meant he had only two nights left before the arena would once again be busy. He had made no progress at all with the startup translations, and he now had only one night to decipher the entire sequence and one more to test the results. The time had come. Making himself one last cup of tea, he took a deep breath and settled down to do some work.

  ***

  Several hours later, the sun at full strength and streaming relentlessly through the cracks in his cheap window shades, all Luca had accomplished was a reasonably certain understanding of the first question, the one that ended in a blinking cursor, impatient for an answer. It seemed it was simply a warning, something about unauthorized access from what he had gathered. “If care is not heard,then it will be a criminal.” His translating skills could use some finesse, but it was a small victory. One looming problem was that this might only be the first screen of many, which would mean he would need to access each one, take a picture, and take them home for translation before moving on. It could take weeks.

  The other, more pressing issue was that he wasn’t at all sure how to respond. There did not seem to be a simple, direct translation for “yes.” He’d found “affirmative” and “comply,” but he wasn’t sure how many chances he would get. What if, after a set number, the terminal locked him out? Or worse, what if it signalled the authorities? The weight of this endeavor, which had previously still seemed a bit abstract, a story he told himself rather than something he might actually do, began to press down on him. This was serious business. Then again, there was an intractable feeling to it as well. He was already in this deep.

  ***

  The coliseum was once again deserted, though this time he walked with more confidence. He went at night, having slept in late after being up most of the day. Anyway, he felt more at ease with the sun put to rest, and he figured it looked less suspicious. If anyone saw him, he could simply say he got the nights confused and showed up a night early.

  Reaching the terminal without incident, he pressed the power button and put in the key, waiting for the lines of code to settle. He felt light brush across his face as the keys became imbued with symbols. It was like magic, like something out of a fairy tale. Hunting through the vast keyboard, he came across “affirmative” first, a kind of cone folded in on itself. He remembered it, because it looked a bit like a person bowing. Taking a deep breath, Luca pressed the button.

  Nothing happened. Then a message flashed across the screen, too quickly for him to retrieve his camera and take a picture. Then the original screen was once again displayed, the blinking cursor blinking. He would just have to try again.

  On the third try he succeeded. A breath of air escaped him that he hadn’t realized he was holding. But he did not need the sphere to read the next screen. It was another blinking cursor, preceded by a symbol he had already looked up many times, a sort of rounded cup shape with a target in the middle that meant “password.” Halfheartedly, he tried “jubilee.” A brief message displayed before he was returned to the same screen as before. He had no idea what the correct password might be.

  Luca had been dreading this moment. He had hoped that maybe the key would be enough, but now the game was up. He didn’t need another disastrous coding class to know that he would not be hacking through this himself. He could always turn it over to the mysterious messenger from here, but something bullish arose within him at the thought. He had not come this far, taken this much risk, just to give up the only prize worth having. He would do this himself. He would find a way.

  As he left the arena, he bumped straight into a workman, no, the workman. Luca jumped backward, nearly impaling himself on the edge of the stair rail, clutching his bag to his chest. The workman did not react.

  “We’re getting impatient. What do you have for us?”

  “I can...I can give you some characters. I’m still working on the startup sequences.”

  “Have them tomorrow on a portable drive. You know where to find me.”

  “Yeah, ok.”

  “And try not to be an idiot about it.”

  Luca nodded at the workman’s look of disgust. He’d have to work out a few characters he could give them that they wouldn’t be able to use. There were some related to printing and copying that were unlikely to help them with access. But they would help him stall.

  Tomorrow night. A portable drive. The inevitable was coming faster still.

  Chapter 20

  If Iona had thought the Progressive compound seemed like a prison, being in a real jail cell soon taught her the error of her ways. That first day, when the bull-headed police officer had brought her in, had felt like a bad dream that would never end, her eyes glazed from fatigue, her body numb but for the many flashpoints of pain. Her digiscans and retinal identity had been verified, her blood-stained pantsuit taken away, even her veinguard cover confiscated. Though the giver clothes had never truly felt like her own, she found she missed them once they were exchanged for a worn gray uniform.

  Despite it being nearly three in the afternoon, protocol dictated she be taken to the prison hospital for a perfunctory examination. She felt woozy under the glare of the bright lights as the AMA machine walked her through the now usual routine, prescribing less than three nights of pain medication for her bruises and doing nothing at all about her neck. It seemed she’d had some kind of reaction to the renYOU Skin, something the AMA called “dermal pigmentation rejection.” The wounds from where Sylton’s fangs had savaged her had healed, but where there normally would have been unbroken skin there were instead parallel lines of white, jagged and broken, tracing from her jugular to her collarbone. In its clipped, dispassioned voice, the machine pronounced them cosmetic and, therefore, requiring an elective procedure that would not be covered by the government-provided healthcare.

  It was almost sunset when she was finally crammed into a tiny cell with three other women, only to be awoken for twilight roll call after two hours of dreamless sleep.

  ***

  A lawyer showed up shortly after breakfast, a female vampire in a black suit. She talked quickly, barely looking at Iona. Iona struggled to concentrate through the haze of fatigue and drugs.

  “The Progressives sent me. They are aware of the delicacy of your situation, given that your encounter was with a member of the same party by which you are employed. They’d like to help. Right now you are looking at a life sentence, more if I hadn’t persuaded the police to drop the charges for the pulsor knife and the hacked spore. You realize that hacking through the palace firewall constitutes an assault on a government network? That means second or even third degree charges if I hadn’t taken care of those too. You’re welcome.

  “Luckily, the victim in question has no family. That means that the charges are being brought by the state, and the decision will be down to a judge rather than open to a jury. If you keep qu
iet and do exactly as I say, I can get you off in twelve years, another three on probation. You’d be young still, you might even have time to pop out a baby or two. All you have to do is sign this form, agreeing to a gag regarding the vampire you attacked and all details of the night in question. You’re not going to find a better deal, it’s as simple as that.”

  The vampire pushed her spore across the table at Iona, a long contract displayed on the screen. A thumbprint indicator at the bottom blinked red. As simple as that. All she had to do was swipe. Iona looked at the vampire with all the resentment she could muster, the cold plastic of the pressure cuffs a constant reminder of her current situation. It was hard to think through the pain medication, but she knew there was something, a reason they wanted it kept quiet. Like prizing something out of the sand, it came slowly. There it was. The thing they didn’t want the public to know. The reason for the gag order. She was done playing their games.

  She shoved the spore back.

  “No. And I don’t need you either. I’ll take the public representative. Tell the Progressives I’m done with their kind of help.”

  The lawyer pursed her lips. Abruptly, she stood, picking up her spore and placing it into her bag. Having expected a harder push, Iona was surprised.

  “Let’s not be too hasty. Sleep on it. Feel your options out. I think you’ll find this offer is...what is that phrase, mutually beneficial? I’ll be back in two nights, and you can give me your answer then.”

  She opened the door, not looking back as it slid shut behind her. Iona tried to ignore the diminishing click of her heels against the concrete floor.

  ***

  The second day, Iona was not so lucky. The second day, the dreams came.

  Sylton pervaded them, appearing behind her like an apparition, revealing himself casually in otherwise innocuous circumstances as a bartender or security guard. Worst of all, her loved ones—her mother, Kaius, Lux—had a tendency to morph into him, the skin of their faces running like wax until Sylton’s surly visage materialized, continuing the conversation as if nothing had happened. She woke several times to a boot from the bunk below, her throat sore.