Glow, p.10
Glow, page 10
She nodded and a new screen opened. The names were all familiar, mainly Tomas and Martin. There were the damning ones – the Alliance contacts. She tried not to look at them, not to sweat or react or indicate anything was wrong, but when she saw the other name, she nearly choked. “It’s him…” she gasped. “He’s all over my communications log. It’s–”
“Ursurper Gale?” Jesh’s grin grew wide again, eyes sparkling and dangerous.
“How did you know?”
“Same signature in all the other patients.”
Her anger boiled over, and she stormed to her feet. “I knew it, that freak, that–”
“Before you leap to the obvious conclusion, Ellayna, the signal origin tags all show they came from within Cloud9. Gale could have hacked into the GFC’s comms system and planted false trails. I’ve discussed this with Martin and his team, and they think it’s impossible. Gale simply does not have that ability. Nobody does.”
“Then who… how?”
He shrugged. “Someone real smart, inside the GFC.” His smile faded and suddenly he looked defeated.
Ellayna left Jesh staring at his virtual screens. She wondered if he’d secretly recorded her comms log. Was it already in Taunau’s hands? Were GFC police on their way to arrest her? Her mind spun with options, Taunau, Marr, Martin? Del? Surely impossible, he was isolated, no connections to GFC servers except through his secure prison link.
She messaged Martin Haller. “Have we tracked down Gale yet?”
“No. The security committee is de-mothballing military equipment to send to TwoLunar, but we’re running out of actual people to do the legwork.”
“Damn it!” She severed the connection and turned a corner. A shadow flickered by as if someone unseen was heading back toward the medical building. She collided with a wall, momentarily becoming airborne, spinning slowly in micro-g until she flicked the ground with one of her foot magnets and clamped upright.
Looking along the corridor a shape appeared at the end where it turned, like a head and shoulders looking back at her from around the corner, a carbon-black head… Gale’s head!
“Lights!” she yelled as the corridor plunged into darkness. She fumbled her ring gun making sure the dangerous end pointed outward. The lights popped obediently on. Nothing.
“Is anyone else in my corridor, Martin?” Her heart thudded as she awaited his reply.
“Just you, Ellayna. Problem?”
“Ghosts, Martin. Shadows. My imagination playing tricks. I just went to see Jesh about my Inner-I security. He told me about Gale’s signature appearing in all the wrong places.”
“Yeah, we’re looking, Ellayna. My guess is the Alliance has some new infiltration technique. Our systems are under constant cyber-attack and one of them has made it through.”
She shook her head and made the brisk walk back to her apartment. They were under attack all right. At war, even. A war to control the GFC, and the battlefield for this conflict wasn’t their machines or their infrastructure – it was the inside of their own heads.
CHAPTER 12
Networked Junkies
Rex sat next to Mira on a bench at a busy crossroads in Tellus district’s central square. The dogs huddled close around their knees, people hustled past in a whirl of stop-frame motion as Rex stared and pondered their escape from the lich.
“Why did you help me? What do you want? I was ready to go,” Mira hissed, voice low and venomous.
Rex saw eyes everywhere; windows, satellites in the sky, cameras, dogs and streetlights winking, watching. “The Future-Lord guided me to you,” he said, unable to digest everything that had just happened.
“You’re one of them, huh?” She made a noise like a laugh but devoid of any mirth. Her eyes grew shifty and intense. “Hey… you got Glow? Or something, man? You must have something.”
He shook his head and faced away.
“Come on, I’m aging away here. You want me to rot and die in front of your stinking face?” She jammed her knee up against his, her hand finding his leg.
Rex looked at her, that familiar desperation. “I don’t have anything.”
“You do. You fucking do. Look at you man, you’re a walking shit heap. I can see it in your eyes. So full of glowworm holes through your brain that you don’t know who you are. Just coz one of them tells you it’s the Future-Lord, you get all fucking high-and-mighty with me? Bullshit!”
“I don’t do that stuff anymore,” he snapped.
She hoisted up the hem of her skirt, hand sliding up her skinny, pale thigh. “I got a trade I think you’ll like.”
“I told you. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore what?” She raged to her feet, scattering nervous passersby into wider arcs around them. “Fucking or drugs?”
“The Sisters helped me–”
“Great, maybe they can hook me up. I’m sure they’ve got all the good shit.”
The darkness was like a pressure, leaching color and light from Rex’s world. Figures became stickmen with eyeballs that stared at him as they jerked by. They knew his secrets. Even the glowworms knew how guilty he was: a fraud pretending to help a woman in exchange for sex and drugs; an alleyway murderer, killer of old, vulnerable men. It was true what Mira said. Why would the benevolent Future-Lord want anything to do with him and his mess of a life? But the Sisters? They told him–
He clutched at his head, forcing the world to stop spinning and squeezing the words out slow and staccato, one at a time, “The… Sisters… can… help you, Mira. There’s food, shelter, protection from liches.”
Mira tugged her skirt back down and eyed him closely. “Are they turning you into a freaking dog or something? Some weirdo experiment?”
“No. I’m turning into a human.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re funny.” She smiled, a jagged, caricature of a smile that was probably once beautiful. It shone through the blemishes and lines, smoothing them into a pleasing whole.
“The Sisters give me work, things to do. It helps with the voices.” Rex nodded down at the sleeping dogs. “They helped me get this job.”
Mira sagged back into a vulnerable heap. A perfume of her rancid bodily fluids wafted over him. “I forgot who the fuck I was years ago,” she said. “Don’t know how I ended up here… in this shit… with you.”
“Who’s the lich?” Rex asked.
“Guy named Auld. Works for my dealer. I can’t pay, can’t get money, can’t get Glow. I’m royally fucked. To them, I’m just a farm animal fattened up for slaughter. Soon I’ll be just another glowworm, a voice in some fucking loser’s head.” At that she let out a loud laugh that degenerated into tears. “I’ll probably end up inside your head, Rex, bitching and whining until you throw yourself off a bridge.”
He laughed with her and an easy silence settled over them. “I quit,” Rex finally said. “I really did quit it. Don’t remember how or even when. It’s like I never really took the stuff at all and it was all just those inside of me that did the drugs and the bad stuff. Even the Sisters don’t understand. They think I’m special. I think they watch me, study me, try to figure out how I survived.” Rex jumped to his feet feeling new energy from inside, from Him. “They can help you, Mira. Look at me! I have everything! Health, a job, a place to live with food and water and… and…” He baulked at talking about the Future-Lord lessons and duties around the hostel.
She shook her head and just stared at him. Her eyes said: you haven’t recovered, you just think you have. But he knew she was wrong.
“Jumping off a bridge won’t fix anything, Mira. Come back to the Sisters with me, or swing by the Forever Friends Rescue and walk some dogs.”
Her face softened as if someone else controlled her muscles now. “What happened to your head anyway? You take a beating?”
Memories loomed through the fog of his past: the taste of pavement, of blood in his mouth, choking on tooth fragments. Concrete striking a skull had a unique sensory texture, a kind of flavor, like electric-iron, but in big spiky grains. “I… I had this sister once and–”
“Fucking Christ, Rex. I don’t need your bullshit life story.” She was on her feet again, green eyes afire with hate and distrust. A different Mira now took the reins. “Get us some freaking Glow or go jump in a ravine. Or go be some fucking hero. Like I give a damn.” She stumbled away, her words and movements now slurred and drunken.
The eyes and the darkness closed in like an explosion in reverse. Rex flopped forward and the day’s trauma flowed up from his gut and out of his mouth as the Sisters’ fake eggs and mushed waffles added yet another layer of filth to the pavement. The dogs gathered around, lapping at the vomit, and Mira vanished into the crowd without looking back.
CHAPTER 13
Rough Justice
From Ursurper Gale’s mission brief, Jett knew the coordinates of Xell Vollarer’s distress call. Although inexact, they placed him just north of Welkin, somewhere in a no man’s land of alleys and derelict factories just across the Interstice Canal from the Broken militia’s West Firmament urban housing and protection project.
After a day patrolling the area, Jett found no clues. He did learn that even though the Broken didn’t control the area, they patrolled it, and exercised reclamation rights over any bodies found there. In fact, death appeared optional when it came to recycling, and just being caught at the wrong time in the wrong place was enough. This explained the lack of homeless people in the area as opposed to other areas of Coriolis City Jett had explored.
Jett planned to infiltrate the “Broken” and find where Xell’s body went. Whoever recycled that body surely had the Star-River.
He crossed the canal using one of the many inflatable bridges the militia had erected to ease access to the Welkin. Here, the scenery changed. The buildings were clean and well maintained with shops, utilities and transport services. Opulent roof gardens spilled over and dripped down to the sidewalks signaling those below that wealthy and powerful individuals lived up beyond their reach.
Hunched, shrunken and wrapped in a blanket like a leper, Jett skulked around the outer fringes of the district, noting patrols and guards, and the copious use of security cameras, many fake, but some real. The Broken favored the ex-military type. Even their local TV station that Jett monitored on his Inner-I was replete with damaged, often disabled veterans. Suddenly their name made sense.
He sculpted a new look: an able-bodied soldier, down on his luck, uniform hanging loose on his bones, ballcap with ear flaps that wrapped under his chin covering old wounds while a generous brow hid his face.
He stuck to the side alleys, scoping out innocent-looking shopfronts that revealed themselves as barracks or monitoring stations. He sensed their eyes watching, felt radar pings and lidar scans; cameras and tiny gun turrets followed his movements. He prickled with combat readiness, aware that he was a sitting target, no escape except through fields of fire.
Glass crunched behind him and a huge man stepped out of a doorway. A hulking figure with cubic features: square-muscles, square-jaw, and square-head. He carried a massive gun slung lazily over a bare shoulder. A thick cigarette hung from his mouth. “Stop!” the man commanded in a deep, graveled voice, using the cigarette to point at Jett.
Blend in. The reminder from Jett’s tagger dropped him into a submissive pose, hands up, face low, eyeing the hulk’s gun which his tagger didn’t recognize.
Unidentified weapon. Possible Goshgun: Gas operated shotgun.
Propellant: hyper-compressed gas cartridge, usually metallic hydrogen.
Projectile: anything that fits into the barrel.
Extremely dangerous, even to the user.
“Why are you skulking around here?” The man grunted, stepping closer, security button pushing into Jett’s face. A green skull-shape cracked down the middle with what might have been his name written on one of the fractured halves: Golt.
“New here,” Jett said, patching together snippets of overheard conversations. “Need to buy protection. Get some work. Maybe score some Glow.”
Golt moved easily, light on his feet for such a chunk of flesh and muscle. He obviously didn’t consider Jett a threat and didn’t even bother pointing the gun in his direction. “We get a hundred losers like you through here each day begging for work.” He took a puff on the cigarette and blew the acrid blue smoke at Jett’s face.
Analysis: Amp, extreme muscle stimulant.
Golt sucked in the smoke and his muscles rippled as if monsters stirred under his skin. He inflated before Jett’s gaze, growing even wider and taller, eyes jittering wildly as if the muscles controlling them were so hyped with energy they couldn’t remain still.
“Where can I buy protection?” Jett said, adding a tremor of fear to his voice.
“Down the street.” Golt indicated the main road. “Recruitment shop at the end will sell you a disk. You walk down the middle of the road. I catch you skulking again, I shoot. Got it?”
Jett nodded and turned to leave, but Golt’s heavy hand grasped his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere yet, friend.”
Jett allowed Golt to spin him around. He looked straight up at the man’s bristling neck. The gun muzzle thrust into Jett’s face, a metal horn like an old-fashioned blunderbuss with a hopper feed jutting from its topside. It ended in a thick wooden stock with heavy chains tumbling over and around the man’s wrist. It looked like something he’d made himself. He probably needed to be Amped just to carry the thing.
“You don’t look right,” Golt growled. “Gonna pat you down.” A huge hand started slapping Jett down his sides and front. Drugged eyes fixed squarely on Jett’s face, daring him to resist, or complain, or maybe, if he was really lucky, to fight back.
An odd memory surfaced: he was a pink and frail human again. A host of smug confident, teenage faces gazed down at him. “He looks like a freakin’ girl!” one youth said.
“Fucking nerd,” said another. Jett felt the kicks to his ribs, punches to his face. Someone pulled on his hair and his scalp tore open, warm blood flowing down his neck. He lost himself in the moment, letting his body relax, fibers flopping like limp clothing, limbs tumbling across the pavement as kicks pounded his chest and skull.
“Please, no more,” he read from his tagger. “I’ll do anything.” That part came from the memory.
“Anything?” said an angry-looking youth, the beginnings of a neck beard forming just under his chin. “What the fuck would I want from an ugly prick like you?”
“Get up!” Golt roared, dragging Jett to his feet and slamming him face-first into the wall. The assault continued, on down his back and legs. Jett staggered and fell against the brickwork, sliding into a defeated heap. Golt’s assault grew faster, harder. Jett folded his arms over his head as a boot crashed into his skull smashing him back against the wall. The bricks shook from the impact. Surely a normal human would be dead? But how to pretend to be dead? Sleep and unconsciousness were not things Jett comprehended.
She was there again, the woman from the horseback ride. The same woman from the clifftop memory who ran beside him, helping him remember how to walk and run. He glimpsed her through bloody eyes, taller than the boys, but thin, and standing at an awkward angle as she only had one shoe on. The other was in her hand and she smacked it around the head of the tufty-chinned youth. “Get off him you jerk!”
The kicks stopped and Jett rolled onto his front as Golt seemed to burn out, just standing, swaying, eyes a defocused bliss as if he’d achieved some kind of climax.
A smoldering cigarette butt landed on the ground near Jett’s face. He heard a snort and a warm blob of phlegm landed on the back of his head, then Golt’s boot ground it in, pushing his face into the cement as if to scour the features from his face.
“Get out of here,” he said, disappointed there had been no real fight.
Jett crawled away, doing his best impersonation of someone severely injured. He paused at the end of the alley and watched Golt amble away, making sure he recorded his gait and features so he could come find him again at some later, more opportune time.
Jett scampered into the street, hobbling toward the recruitment shop, following the white line down the center of the road.
He left the area, aware that cameras recorded him, observant eyes marked him as suspicious, dangerous, someone who wasn’t who he had pretended to be. Soon, he found a quiet alleyway with no cameras. His head grew square and broad, and he widened his skeleton, puffing out cords of arm and leg muscle, filling out a tight, but tattered military uniform.
He strolled back into the Broken’s jurisdiction, straight to the recruitment shop, noting the look of fear on the serving woman’s face as the hulking human eased through the doorway as if he owned the place.
CHAPTER 14
Dumpster Dive
“You be a good boy now… come on… up here… up.” Rex jumped onto the foul-smelling table. A thousand hands grasped him from all sides, pinning and pressing, tying him down, legs splayed wide. He howled as faces hidden behind surgical masks leaned close, shoving tubes and needles into veins and orifices. Wires sparked alive, pistons sucked and gurgled pumping shit and drugs and air… in and out… in and out… as the ping-ping of an electronic heartbeat grew faster… faster…
As darkness closed around, he felt the grubs wriggling through his mind, gnawing at neurons and synapses, gorging on sparks of sensation and cognition while shitting out trails of memories, new memories that weren’t his.
All while the eyes watched… the green, fog addled eyes–
Mira!
Rex jolted awake and inhaled the sweet stench of days-old rotten garbage. He lay in the pristine darkness listening to the familiar fluttering of rats and maggots.
Who did I become this time? Who did I kill?
He felt around for any zip-ties, any cold, dead hands. His fist clanged against a metal surface, a dumpster, a trusted haven when you could find one that wasn’t occupied. Shelter from the heat or the biting cold, a place to fall unconscious and recuperate while the stink shielded you from the predator’s senses. The lich. It was coming for him.
