Amped

by Daniel H. Wilson

  The blond kid has started shaking. The trailer is warm and moist as the inside of a fresh-cooked biscuit, but he’s got his sunburned arms wrapped around his torso and his elbows are bouncing around like he’s riding in the back of a pickup truck.

  Lyle curls two fingers back and makes his right hand into the shape of a gun. He steps back, extends his arm all the way, and lowers it. Points directly at the middle of the blond kid’s heaving chest.

  “What’s the symbol mean, kid?” I ask. “Elysium? The EM? What?”

  I’m a ghost to Lyle, invisible. Not part of whatever show is playing in his mind.

  “Ready to die, kid?” he asks. “The United States Army gave me this power. They did this to me. Took away my life and made me good for one thing: killing.”

  The little one has started crying. Eyes closed, hands unbound but down at his sides anyway. Helpless in the shadow of the Brain. “It’s a secret club,” he blubbers. “They call it Elysium. Billy and them have special meetings and stuff. Only the ones with the tattoo get in. I don’t know nothing else.”

  “Shut up!” shouts the big kid.

  Eyes half lidded, Lyle presses his fingers into the big blond kid’s chest. “You are going to die today,” he says.

  The blond kid whimpers, shaking uncontrollably now. “Please,” he’s trying to say in a strained whisper, “please, no.”

  “Who’s in charge of Elysium?” I ask.

  “Vaughn,” whispers the blond kid. “Billy knows him. He’s the boss. The spotlighters are out there because he said so. Please.”

  Lyle lifts his hand. Then he abruptly drops it, presses his fingers into the kid’s chest. The kid takes a deep breath and holds it.

  “Boom!” shouts Lyle, and bursts into a hyena cackle.

  The blond kid shrieks. Keeps shrieking. Goes rigid and slides off the chair onto the soggy floor. Scrabbling and screaming. Eyes open but blind. His little friend slumps, sobbing in his chair.

  All of it against the backdrop of Lyle’s wild laughter. And under the gaze of the Brain. The giant man stands motionless save his breathing, a placid boulder.

  I try to pull the blond kid up off the ground, but he’s lost his mind. Grunts and shrieks. Lyle leans over and slaps the kid across the face. He keeps screaming, so Lyle tries to slap him again.

  I grab Lyle’s bicep, pull him back. It takes all my strength. “Brain,” I say, putting Lyle into a full-on bear hug. “Dump them in the field. Don’t hurt ’em.”

  The Brain says nothing, glances at Lyle. I’m not a general like the other Zeniths: Stilman, Daley, Valentine. But the cowboy has gone vacant, so the Brain obeys me. Grabs both the kids by the back of their shirts, one in each hand, and drags them out the front door. Two sacks of squirming meat wrapped in T-shirts.

  I let go of Lyle and he drops to the floor. Scoots back to lean against the wall. He rests a tattoo-stained arm across one knee. His forehead wrinkles as he tries to come out of it. His limbs quiver and he grimaces, shakes his head. I start to breathe normally again. I could puke, but damned if I’m going to lose it in front of Lyle. Not ever again.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask him.

  Lyle wipes his face with his sleeve. He stands up and peeks out the window. Grins, daylight flashing from his shark eyes.

  “If you’re gonna be useful, I needed you to see,” he says. “You got to know how bad they want what we got.”

  * * *

  Thousands Attend Pure Pride Counterprotest

  PHOENIX—Doctors, libertarians, technology workers, and pro-choice advocates attended a huge statehouse rally Thursday, saying that leaders nationwide had gone too far in pushing an agenda opponents consider an attack on the American citizen’s right to control his or her own body.

  State police said more than 8,000 people gathered outside the capitol building at the rally’s peak, making it the largest at the Arizona capitol in years. Hundreds of supporters for the Pure Human Citizen’s Council also attended, separated by a strip of parking lot but with both sides trading insults. An atmosphere of hostility permeated the event. Local police monitored both groups, intent on preventing violence.

  Jared Cohen, head of the Free Body Liberty Group, delivered a stirring speech under heavy security, telling a cheering crowd of thousands that “America is built on a foundation of freedom, and that includes the freedom to choose what technology we put into our bodies.”

  Senator Joseph Vaughn, president of the Pure Human Citizen’s Council, claimed the FBLG had gone too far and that, if left unchecked, implantable technology could destroy the fabric of society. “They are calling for a war on humanity. And this is a battle that we must win, if not for ourselves, then for our children and our children’s children.”

  Jim leans forward in his squeaky La-Z-Boy recliner, the fabric on its arms shined to a high gloss by his knobby elbows. The chair looks like a stray dog covered in burn wounds, but Jim is oblivious, blue eyes bright.

  “I told ya, kid,” he says. “It’s not too late.”

  It’s right there on the tube, on the evening news. The Free Body Liberty Group out of Arizona. The FBLG is protesting at the Arizona State Capitol. Behind a chattering newscaster, I can see the angel of justice perched on the roof of the capitol building, her sword raised. The crowd there is loud and proud and standing up for an American’s right to decide just exactly what to do with his or her own damn body.

  Maybe Samantha was wrong.

  Jim is cracking a smile at me from across the living room, gray stubble collapsing into mirthful wrinkles. He sits at attention like an exclamation point in the wood-paneled living room. A dust-coated deer head stares down at us from its mount on the wall. Head lowered and horns poised, challenging infinity with black eyes.

  “There’s still goodness in people,” muses Jim, watching the television. “Take that, Vaughn, you dickhead.”

  I’m grinning back at Jim. Trying to enjoy this moment—the first time we’ve seen an organized group of people holding up the amp end of the dialogue.

  “This is how it has to happen,” says Jim. “The regular folks have to fix things. We can’t force them into it.”

  These are vanilla humans standing up for their family and friends. Most of the temples on the television are bare. A minority but finally vocal. I can’t help thinking that if those were amps standing on the capitol steps, well, it would be a different scene.

  Somehow, Jim hears it coming first. Moaning floats through the window, too shocked to be crying anymore. Without a word, Jim pries himself out of his La-Z-Boy and hauls ass into his bedroom.

  I’m half out of my seat when the front door bursts open. Lucy staggers inside, carrying Nick in both arms. The kid falls onto the couch.

  There’s a rivulet of blood coming from his temple.

  “What happened?” I gasp.

  “Spotlighters,” says Lucy. “Must have got him crossing the field.”

  Nick moans again, but I can’t make out the words. Something is different about him. Something I can’t quite place…

  His maintenance port is gone.

  That little nub stripped right off his face. The skin around it is raw and puffy and bleeding.

  I can’t believe he is still conscious.

  Lucy looks over, and I turn to see Jim framed in the weak hallway light. He’s got his worn old doctor’s bag pinned under a skinny bicep.

  “Get a wet rag from the kitchen, Owen,” Jim says.

  The old man is all business, squatting by the couch next to Nick. He glances up to Lucy and starts to say something, stops, lower lip quivering. Sets his jaw and starts again.

  “Can he still see?” Jim asks Lucy.

  It’s a simple, short question. But after he asks it, the old man swallows a lump of emotion. Forces it down past his Adam’s apple and into his paunchy stomach. Down there, the despair can chew him up slow instead of consuming him all at once.

  “I don’t know,” says Lucy. “He found his way home. But they tore it out.�
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  “Christ,” he says. “I’m not sure what we can do without the port.”

  I drop a wet dishrag into Jim’s hand and he dabs at Nick’s temple. Scrubs the dirt away, leaving pink, inflamed skin. The rag comes away filthy and dark with blood. But the boy starts to stir. His eyes open and rotate back and forth.

  “Nick,” says Jim, waving at his face, “what do you see?”

  Nick turns and squints up at his adoptive mother. Doesn’t say anything. His thin lips press together in a white line, and he closes his eyes again and a new wave of tears streams down his face.

  “Baby, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay,” says Lucy, stroking his cheek with one hand and methodically wiping tears from her eyes with the other.

  “You’re doing great, Nick,” I say.

  Jim strokes Nick’s head, pushes wet strands of hair out of his confused face. A goose egg is growing on his forehead, cratered by a small red gash. Turning dark fast.

  Lucy and Jim look at each other. A question is in the set of her lips, in the concerned wrinkle of her forehead. She leaves it unspoken.

  “Best case it’s just a concussion,” Jim says. “I’m going to need to get a look at what’s left of the maintenance nub to find out. Seems okay for now. The implant itself is still in there. Port could have come out clean at the connector. But you know, worst case, if it came out rough …”

  Lucy says what Jim can’t.

  “Brain damage.”

  On the television across the room, a fat sweaty guy with a sign is yelling. Face turning red. Other Free Body protesters surround him, screaming mouths on flushed faces. The yeller’s voice has gone hoarse and he barks the same two words again and again like a piece of broken machinery.

  “No limits!” he is shouting. “No limits!”

  “Turn that shit off,” snarls Jim, “and get me some light.”

  I snap the television off. The front door is still open, a yawning mouth leading to a warm dark throat outside. The stars didn’t come out tonight and the crickets are singing about it in the shadowed grass.

  On the couch, Nick’s small eyes are wide open and scared and sad.

  Jim yells for light again. I trot to the kitchen table and grab a cheap desk lamp off a stack of old newspapers. Pens from forgotten companies and keys to long-junked cars spatter to the floor. I plug the lamp in next to the couch and hold it as high as the short electric cord lets me.

  Jim’s got a thumb hooked under Nick’s eyelid, pulling down the skin. The lamp light shines down weakly and Nick’s pupil retreats, collapsing to a black decimal point. The outline of the retinal implant floats there, rudely visible. The shape of it is square and angular and so clearly man-made compared to the natural mottled brown of his eyes.

  “What’s your name, son?” Jim asks.

  Nick’s eyes slowly snap to attention, focusing on Jim’s face. The old man gently cradles the boy’s head. Nick blinks up at him. Moves his lips into the shape to make words.

  “Nick,” he says, voice slurring. The boy turns and sees Lucy. “Momma?” he asks.

  “I’m here, honey. Where did they hurt you?” asks Lucy.

  Nick raises one fist and taps the side of his head. His wrist is bent, fingers curled up in a way that’s not good. Jim winces, tries to hide his reaction.

  “Nowhere else?”

  Nick shakes his head. Drops his fist.

  “Who did this?”

  Nick just looks up at Lucy. Eyes wide and brown. No response. The boy’s lips start to move, quivering. Again, nothing comes

  out. The boy squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, tears slithering onto the couch cushions. He reaches up and wipes his eyes with one hand that’s still curled into a fist.

  Like a baby.

  Jim slumps onto his haunches. Lucy puts the back of her hand against her mouth. I lose concentration and the lamp doglegs. I feel Lucy’s gentle fingers on my spine and I reach behind me and take her hand. We don’t look at each other, just feel the warmth of each other’s hands.

  I don’t know if Nick has got brain damage, but this isn’t good and he’s so young. I can’t even imagine it. Some reggie tried to tear the fucking amp right out of his head.

  Maybe I should have let Lyle beat the shit out of those reggie kids.

  Jim stops poking around and looks up, works the hunch out of his shoulders. There is relief on his face. “Looks like the maintenance nub came off clean. Implant is fine in there. I think he’ll be okay. But he’s gonna have to rest until we can find a replacement port,” says Jim. “Home is fine. Hospital won’t work on this anyway.”

  “Whoever did this is outside right now,” I say, “laughing about it.”

  “Nothing to be done,” says Jim.

  The way the words catch in his throat makes me feel suddenly small. I have a vision of our trailer from high above. A tiny cube of warmth, jaundiced light spilling out the windows onto dead grass. Trailer sitting here like a rotten shipwreck, alone and long forgotten on the abyssal plain of the ocean floor.

  Nick puts his fist on his chest. I reach over and take his fingers in mine. Our eyes connect, and he opens his hand. As his fingers uncurl, something small and yellowish and electronic falls onto his chest.

  His missing maintenance nub.

  “Good job, Nick,” I whisper. “Smart boy.”

  Jim eagerly pulls out a pair of surgical tweezers. Plucks the device off Nick’s gently rising chest. The old man holds it up to the light and inspects it, squinting.

  “Can you put it back in?” I ask.

  “Need to sterilize it. But not yet. Drag that old TV over here,” Jim says, grunting as he stands up.

  “Why?”

  Jim holds up the implant. “Because if Nick can’t tell us what happened, why, we’ll just have to watch for ourselves.”

  In a ditch, not far from here, little Nick is dragging himself up on bloody knees. Running as fast as he can. In a streaking flash he glances over his shoulder. A group of men are giving chase. They wear grins like Halloween masks. Mouths soundlessly coned into hooting O shapes. Lips peeling back and eyes glittering from flashlights, apelike and predatory.

  We sit in the living room and watch the world through Nick’s eyes. The retinal chip floating in Nick’s eyeball never stopped recording. It sent images to his implant where the information was cached on a tiny hard drive. It only kept about twenty minutes, up until the moment it was disconnected. Now that the nub is plugged into the right receiver, we bear witness.

  No sounds. Just a vision of violence.

  Nick falls again, lands in the rough caress of his own shadow. Digs his torn fingernails through dead bristles, clawing forward. A spotlight is aimed at his back. Before him, his lunging silhouette slithers through spiny stalks of brown grass.

  The spotlighters caught Nick coming into the field after dark. We’re free to come and go during the day—nobody has tried to set up roadblocks, yet. But it’s different at night. Some of the other trailer park kids must have thrown Nick’s Rubik’s cube over the fence. He was cautious, searching for it. He saw the spotlighters, watched them from a distance. But he got too close. The field was too dangerous after sunset.

  Full of sharks. Sharks in lawn chairs. Cheap hollow-tubed aluminum chairs sitting cockeyed in the field. Shotguns leaning against them. Empty silver beer cans littering the grass like dead fish. A scene bathed from above in Rapturously bright light, inky shadows rooting through the dirt and stalks of grass. Like a little fake moon landing being staged every night here in our field.

  The electric generator for the spotlights is on two wheels with a muddy trailer hitch jutting out. Looks like it used to be that trademark John Deere green color, but now it’s rusted and caked with sooty exhaust from spending long nights keeping an eye on us. It supports a leaning aluminum tower about twelve feet tall, sprouting four glowing spotlights like metal flowers.

  To his credit, Nick tried to stick to the shadows. Stepped carefully. Kept an eye on the pool
of light and scanned the grass for that familiar cube shape. He stayed in the darkness, but it wasn’t enough.

  A handheld spotlight hits him and he freezes. Puts his palm out against the light and squints. All he can see is that acid burn of brightness from the dark. Looks like somebody says something to him, because he turns and starts to move away fast. Toward home and safety.

  He doesn’t make it far.

  Flashlights strafe back and forth across the grass. Nick is running now. His sneakers slash through shadow and light. The last thing I can make out clearly is Nick looking toward Eden. One small trailer with warm light spilling out. Home. He twists violently as someone grabs him from behind. A hairy forearm closes over his chest and then confusion. The image is blurred by hair and dirt and flashlight streaks, and then finally, tears.

  Our world here is getting smaller every day.

  I can feel the vise closing in. Those men in the fields. And an army of them beyond the field. A nation of reggies locked arm in arm and taking one step closer to us every night. Closing ranks around us and all the other Uplift sites, compressing our crowded neighborhoods into ghettos.

  Lucy squeezes my hand tight but never turns away from the screen. Her teeth are clenched but she doesn’t look scared. She just looks sad.

  “Animals,” she says, “a bunch of animals.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” I say. “Go out there.”

  “What then?” asks Jim. “Start shooting? Nothing to be done except sit tight. The kid will be okay. Things will go back to normal.”

  “How can you believe that?” I ask.

  “Because most people are good,” says Jim. “But not when they’re afraid.”

  I glare out the open front door toward the field. The spotlighters are still out there. Getting drunk. Hooting and hollering. Raking their lights over our trailers. I’d love to go out there and seek retribution. I know how to activate my Zenith. But I have no idea what I’m capable of.